


Flickering lights

by YochiLL1204



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Ackroyd is a jerk because he is the only one to use the brain cell, Angst, Blood, Canon Divergence, Human!McCullum, Human!Swansea, Jonathan falls into coma, Jonathan has unsuspected powers, Multi, No Civilian Kills | Not Even Once, No McReid, No Smut this is pure, POV Multiple, Priwen is conflicted, Strickland develops powers, Strickland is a cat owner, Thoreau is haunted by him, Vampire!Reid, Violence, medical scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29248968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YochiLL1204/pseuds/YochiLL1204
Summary: The epidemic is reaching its climax as both the Spanish Flu and the Skal disease are spreading fast over London ; Jonathan Reid, feeling that the mystery surrounding those disasters is about to be uncovered, suddenly loses a battle against the ever-meddling Priwen and falls into a slumber from which he doesn’t seem to rise. To the unaware Pembroke staff, strange events are slowly taking place since their colleague’s coma and, one in particular, cannot but wonder about the true nature of their fight : are Strickland and the hospital staff confronted to “just” waves of the epidemic, or… Can there be something else pulling the strings behind the curtains ?Alternative version of the game diverging from Swansea’s fate decision, where Jonathan is unconscious for several days and Strickland, suddenly haunted by his mentor, makes worrisome discoveries and gets involved in quite distressing situations… even for a fully accomplished doctor like himself.
Relationships: Corcoran Tippets/Gwyneth Branagan, Elisabeth Ashbury/Jonathan Reid, Jonathan Reid/Edgar Swansea, Jonathan Reid/Thoreau Strickland, Thoreau Strickland/Edgar Swansea, Waverley Ackroyd/Thoreau Strickland
Kudos: 11





	1. Hold tight, my friend

**Author's Note:**

> Vampyr’s a great game, but one of the things that left me wishing for more depth is the interactions with the Pembroke staff. I got attached to every one of them as the hospital zone is the first one we get to explore, where the player really discovers the peculiar functionalities of the game like really taking the time to talk to NPCs and mulling over the three-choice answers ; to discover their personalities, the short part of their backgrounds we get to feed on, and finally to decide if their lives are really worth their dialogues or if those 6000xp could be more meaningful in fighting skals.  
> So basically, it’s some sort of retelling the story in order to better explore the psychology of those characters. I wanted them to feel more like they’re actually living all the events – don’t tell me they only managed to admit one (1) skal [Sean Hampton] in the entire time the skal epidemic has raged on and that there was absolutely no consequence to the abduction of Swansea, except for maybe some lost dialogues tossed carelessly (can’t say, never left Swansea to die anyway).  
> Also Jonathan is the progeny of some ancient spirit that is mates with God itself, so our doctor is going to have some rightful additional powers that will quickly cancel out (like a well-oiled Chasles relation, love that one). And thanks to that, I’ll fix that mess of a scene Swansea’s fate decision was and manage to keep him human and alive -- and as aware and s l i g h t l y realistic about what he's done as he should be, which is when the story begins.  
> The first two (Edit : four) chapters will introduce the matter from Reid's POV.  
> I hope you enjoy this, as it was not meant to be shared in first place. Feel free to comment ! Although as my middle name is Stubborn it is likely I will not listen to common sense [I lost it years ago]. Here is my Discord if you think you can convince me otherwise : YochiLL1204 #1274  
> A good portion of the fanfic is already written, so I will try to update this regularly.

_The dead heart was beating loudly inside the cold chest, rhythm forceful and sound. Doctor Jonathan Reid lowered his saw, a few steps away from the gruesome show that was happening before his eyes : Doris Fletcher, the famous actress who conquered a thousand hearts, had lighted herself on fire after a last glance to her opponent. The latter was watching with quiet horror as the heavily-mutated skal, once a beautiful young woman, had accepted her defeat and broken the burning lantern on herself. She knew Jonathan wasn’t going to let her go. She knew her imminent fate. And she chose to die at her own hand, screaming with an intensity that hardly matched the wrecking pain inside._

_The flames and the acrid scent of burnt, rancid flesh rose in the broad amphitheater ; it made the Ekon’s nose wrinkle unconsciously. Fletcher acted with a tremendous bravery, the greatest traits of her past personality shining one last time as respect and slight admiration awoke in Jonathan’s heart._

_“Farewell, Doris.”_

_Yes, she will be remembered._

Memories stirred in his uneasy mind as Jonathan Reid crossed the entrance of the theatre once again. The wrecked place was still dusty and messy, but at least it wasn’t smelling like rotten meat, a stench the skals are used to carry around sadly. That was about the only remembrance of their decaying shell for their lost humanity.

But the doctor wasn’t here to check on the cleanliness of the place ; with a chest full of worry, he was looking for his dear friend and colleague, Dr. Edgar Swansea, that got kidnapped in his very sacred grounds : the Pembroke hospital. After returning from the sentence of Dawson and the warning of Old Bridget back in the West End, he would enter the Pembroke only to find agitated patients and even more agitated staff members. He had to stop an upmost nervous Nurse Hawkins from colliding with him, carrying a handful of medical supplies.

“Nurse Hawkins”, were his first calm words, “what is going on ?”

“Dr Reid”, she answered with an expected panic, “I don’t know where you have been, but they were _here_ ! Suddenly, all of them, all over the place ! The administrator is missing – Christ, they could’ve killed us !”

Reid backed off a little due to this unusual behavior, momentarily surprised. Stress had caused such a shift, he immediately reasoned, after the dreadful event he had been warned about.

“Nurse, you need to get a hold on yourself”, he stated firmly, his voice a temple of assurance. Watching her release a tired breath and glancing around nervously, he muted in comprehension : “What is it ? Did anyone get injured ?”

“It’s Milton”, she immediately confessed. “And… Dr. Strickland. He was on his way outside when they bursted in, like savages ! I think he asked them to back off, I don’t know – I was more focused on their weapons, doctor. He took a nasty blow to the head.”

Jonathan’s lips parted a little upon hearing the news, then closed tightly.

“Alright. What about Milton ? Is he faring well ? Did he confronted them ?”

“Yes. He… I think he tried to fend them off. They—” she pursued, before her voice trailed off, and she briskly shook her head while lowering her gaze. “Dr. Tippets is patching him up outside. I was taking these to them.”

Reid nodded, observing the young and exhausted face, glowing eyes staring at the floor ; his thoughts wandered momentarily on her. Perhaps Hawkins was rumored not to be competent as other members, but she had a good heart and an extended empathy towards everyone. His acute senses told him she was nursing a sound headache, and he felt sorry for her.

“And you said Dr. Swansea is missing ? Who were the assailants ?”

“I couldn’t say. Some were wearing a blueish uniform, or grey coats, like some sort of militia. His name was one of the first thing those beasts shouted. I think they went to the attic.” She stopped to take a breath or two. “They cornered me and wouldn’t stop pressing about the hideout of our “leeches”, doctor. They were frantic, violent and didn’t make any bloody sense”, Pippa stressed with obvious fear, before adding, “Frankly, I thought they were about to kill me.”

Priwen. Of course, who else could it be. Strickland had no idea who he was confronting so openly, but then again, it was Priwen ; they were supposed to be on the civilians’ side. Well, quite apparently, their allegiances changed as fast as it suited them. Anger started to quietly boil inside ; was he even okay ? And then they had Swansea. He had no time to waste, and hurried to the indicated place taking the elevator to the upper floor.

Only to encounter a merciless McCullum.

Reid shook his head. He didn’t want to dwell on the fight, let alone the outcome of it. He left a kneeling, defeated hunter in the attic, unable to erase that looming threat once and for all, sparing his life. The bitter taste the encounter gave the doctor turned his initial anger into frustration and strong irritation ; he hadn’t taken a single human life since that terrible night, and yet they didn’t bother distinguishing him from the rest of those other Ekon that had crossed far too many boundaries. The only useful thing he could retrieve from McCullum was the location Swansea was kept in.

Jonathan focused on his environment. The theatre wasn’t displaying silence, not exactly. The doctor stood there close to the doors, listening to rattling sounds, lost words, anything that might give away a foreign presence. In fact, his sharp hearing noted various footsteps coming from different directions ; his Ekon sight wandered over the building with a filter, through shades of white and grey ; he winced when he spotted several heartbeats pulsing red through the filthy walls. Looking harder through the floors, inspecting the ceiling, he pushed the edges of his vision until it felt blurry in search of a familiar heartbeat.

When he found it, his own heartbeat faltered.

Swansea’s bloodstream gave away his miserable condition. He was not well.

The man’s veins displayed a somewhat macabre painting : he was held in such a weird position, arms stretched upward, under Jonathan’s feet a dozen steps away. He didn’t remember seeing any trap in his previous trip, and wondered firmly how to get down there. One thing for sure : if he wanted to get out with his colleague, he better cleanse the theatre from any threats. The doctor clenched his teeth.

A loud thud resonated after the last Priwen soldier patrolling the upper parts of the building fell under the doctor’s relentless attacks. Catching his breath, the Ekon was struggling to fight the impulse of throwing himself at the warm, recently killed body ; his vision was blurry with red nuances – he was so hungry, so thirsty. Jonathan violently shook his head before supporting it with one hand, one that was covered with fast-healing cuts and dried blood. In fact, his whole costume was stained and pierced ; he wasn’t a fine swordsman in tiny spaces and the soldiers had unexpectedly put up heavy fights on the table. Despite his wounds, the brightness of their blood, the delightful scent of copper had filled the whole theater with his numerous victims ; but _he wouldn’t bite_. Wouldn’t taste ; that was ill and ceding to temptation was far too risky for his remaining humanity. It felt like ages had passed since the last time he could enjoy the delicious texture of a rich, vibrant meal –

Mary. Mary was his last meal.

Utterly and instantly disgusted by his beast-like instincts, he blatantly ignored the darkening edges of his vision as he promised himself to snack on some rats ; he started inspecting closely the amphitheater instead. He had a friend to save. Jonathan managed to locate a door, next to the very spot were Doris Fletcher burnt last time ; not even bothering to scold himself, he searched for the key, found it, took a few steps down and, upon hearing one last interfering heartbeat, the Ekon sneaked upon another Priwen guard. One neat blow to the neck, and his spine cracked like a branch under his foot.

Reid ran next door. He sensed Swansea’s heartbeat, weak and desperate ; his stomach ached with fear. Was he too late ? Prying the door open, he entered a small room, and saw there the man, nearly hanging over the floor, his hands tied with a thick rope attached to the ceiling.

“Edgar !”, he cried, rushing towards his friend. “Edgar. Can you hear me ? Look at me.”

“Jonathan ?”, his voice cracked as his fellow colleague hand-cupped his face and lifted it a bit, easing the eye contact. “Is it really you…”

Even before thrusting the door Jonathan’s eyes gave away his poor physical state : from there, he could accurately tell he encased a deep stab wound, causing an internal bleeding. His face was badly bruised, his left eye was bloated and a string of blood escaped his lips’ commissure. Quite inevitable his nose was broken and was heavily bleeding. His blouse was stained and dirty ; he was probably dragged all the way to the theatre. Swansea was barely able to stand on his own, and his eyes were _screaming_ the pain endured.

Swiftly, he cut the rope with his saw and caught his friend before he could hit the floor, adjusting his body and prompting his arms under Swansea’s armpits to help him stand a bit.

“Easy, easy there. I got you”, tried to reassure Jonathan just as worry was clawing his guts ; he decided to sit his colleague on a chair. “I’ll get you out of here.”

Truth was, in his actual state, he didn’t know how. Edgar let out a painful groan.

“There’s no need to give me hope, my dear Jonathan”, the latter pained as he struggled to catch his breath. Something seemed to be oppressing his chest, and he held his arm close to his belly. “As a physician I know all too well when it is too late. Punctured lung. Broken ribs. Internal bleeding. An accurate diagnosis, don’t you think—”

Jonathan kneeled while Edgar coughed a few spats of blood. How could he have let this happen ? He was always in the hospital, and now, thanks to his outdoor devotion, he let his only trusted acquaintance be beaten black and blue. He was too far from his hideouts ; Crane’s dispensary and Pembroke Hospital were at the same distance, and he wasn’t sure his friend would make it. As he silenced Swansea so he could rest his lungs, his Ekon eyes inspected him very closely, and his heart twisted painfully when he determined, indeed, how precise was the victim’s diagnosis.

But he couldn’t give up on him.

“Listen, Edgar, we’re heading back to the Hospital, do you understand ? Hold on to me—”

“It is too late for me, Jonathan !”, the poor man cried, grabbing his friend’s arm to prevent him from attempting anything, his voice tainted with thick layers of despair.

“Edgar, we may have a chance—”

“ _Please_ , stay with me. I… I…”

He was forcefully clutching his dark coat, the mortal heart racing under a full frame of vivid emotions. Reid’s mind was racing as well, and hurriedly concluded it was the torture that loosened his friend’s mind ; dragging him back could affect him terribly, but – did they have any choice, really ?

“Okay, okay”, appeased the vampire. “I will not leave your side. Please, listen to me and calm down.”

But the Pembroke administrator seemed so far away from that place.

“Jonathan, I…”, he swallowed painfully, “I have something that needs to be discussed.” Jonathan recognized this time both shame and fear ; confused, he rested his free hand on Swansea’s recollected arm.

“I am listening, my friend.”

He was having trouble breathing : his face so lost and twisting in acid pain made the doctor grow more and more impatient. Time was running out and he was seriously considering carrying his colleague all the way to the Pembroke. But his heartbeat was so irregular, and he was losing so much blood inside…

“I may have made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.”

“Please, tell me.”

“It’s the epidemic. McCullum’s soldiers made a point in desiring to make me confess about its origin. Naturally, I… I didn’t see the link, but n-now… McCullum may be right.”

“What are you rambling on about ?”

“They detailed everything. How the infection would have started at the Pembroke with—”

He was interrupted by an impromptu coughing.

“—With Doris Fletcher”, grimaced Jonathan, surprising the dying man who snapped his head up. “Yes, I have read McCullum’s findings. She first got infected while visiting her mother, Harriet Jones.”

“Indeed. Both… exhibited the same symptoms, starting with the blinding hate and strong physical mutation.”

“That was hardly a coincidence, I concede”, answered the other. “As well as I understand why Priwen thought us responsible for the epidemic, I don’t see how everything could’ve started at the Pembroke. Harriet was the only patient affected, and since it’s highly contagious, I find myself unable to explain—”

“I administered old Harriet vampire blood to cure her from influenza”, blurted out Swansea with a dead look, stunning his colleague.

A shocked silence lasted for a few seconds.

“You did _what_?!”, Jonathan answered angrily, standing up at once.

“It was experimental, and foolish, and everything you might want to label it, Jonathan, I know. But I swear on the Stole, there was no evil plan, no… diabolical plot ! I only wished to test the healing and regenerating properties of vampire blood to find a cure—”

“You used vampire blood to cure a human—My God, Edgar, that is purely insane ! You put your patient’s life on the line before some dangerous procedure— whose blood was it ? Mine ? Lady Ashbury’s ?!”

“…Lady Ashbury’s”, he let out with a small voice.

“That is incredibly unethical. You betrayed the trust of two of your patients at once, and by doing so, started a supernatural epidemic that ended already with half of London !”, fumed his friend, after a rush of understanding and pure frustration. He could’ve told him. He could’ve ended this mystery long ago and avoid him the long runs across the entire city. Save time, that was cruelly missing.

“I made a mistake, Jonathan”, Swansea’s squeaking voice said. “I ended the lives of so many. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

By the end of his sentence, he was nearly sobbing, shameful and repenting as he was. There was little left of the curious and outgoing man Edgar often appeared to the vampire. Jonathan felt his strengths leave the beaten body.

“I wanted to fix it sooner, but I didn’t… I didn’t see the link right away, I swear ! You worked with me, you witnessed every small step we made. I just wanted to end this chapter like everybody else.”

Green light eyes met blue ones. But the doctor sentenced the victim with a judgmental, unbreakable silence. Like a breach opened between the both of them. His eyes were hard and did not hide the immutable disappointment lurking in his head, as he saw the consciousness starting to fade in Edgar’s look.

But Jonathan was not feeling only anger ; he understood. He, as a man of his work, ran numerous tests on soldiers during the war : experiments, trying to get somewhere. He knew, as he did it before. Swansea was just a few steps behind him… Could he judge him ? How was he to sentence him to a fearful death, the very man who helped him and whose research led to very similar outcomes ?

Of course, Jonathan did not start the most problematic epidemic of all History. But even Ackroyd did point out very well that he condemned many to his untested procedures. He just dodged the bullet so far.

“Forgive me, old friend”, sighed Edgar very quietly, gently gripping Reid’s wrist and lowering his head – the emotions led him to the very still path of unconsciousness, and very soon enough, death. “I deserve this. I…”

Reid closed his eyes.

“ _Jonathan_.”

The warm grip weakened on his skin, shaking hands slowly giving up.

Without a second thought, Jonathan slipped under Swansea and lifted him up by tugging his arms underneath his knees and armpits. The victim let out a moan of surprise and pain as the doctor rushed towards the exit with the nearly unconscious body.

_My God. We lost an unholy amount of precious time._

“Stay with me, Edgar. Listen to my voice, you hear me ?”, he declared with hurry as he climbed the stairs four by four. The heartbeat so close to his chest was faltering, pulsing with difficulty.

Soon enough, he was outside.

Pembroke Hospital was way too far from here. They would never make it in time.

“No”, Jonathan voiced aloud. “Not here. Not like this. He’s going to die.”

“Jonathan… Please…”, Swansea pleaded.

And that terrified him. He looked down at the man. His mind wandered without authorization to the fragile body of Mary, moments before her ultimate slumber, her hand resting on his cheek with fond, restless, empty eyes.

His name resonated deeply in him. Closing his eyes, he allowed the words of the dying man infuse their despair into the fibers of his very body. HE was a powerful Ekon. HE had powers no one suspected, HE arose from the dead. And HE was letting his friend die. Like his loved ones. Like his Mary.

A light clicked inside the Ekon. His grip tightened on the body, and both disappeared in a cloud of shadows.

Jonathan’s feet nearly faltered as they tripped on irregular pavement. Dizzy and disoriented, the vampire lifted his gaze to meet the Pembroke’s protection grid ; his mouth felt dry and his whole body threatened to undergo arcades, but he instantly dismissed everything. Unbelievable. They made it. He did it, he was right there !

Swansea let an ultimate sight, slumping even more against his body. Jonathan ran like his life was on the line, sprinting to the entrance with apprehension and a helpful amount of adrenaline rushing through his cold veins. Feet hitting hard the floor, lights playing with his vision, the pavement seemed to be never ending until he passed the first tents displayed outside, running along a wary Clay Cox.

Tippets busy. Milton injured. Strickland injured. Ackroyd. Branagan. Hawkins.

Out of breath, he crossed loudly the open front gates of the hospital, startling a concentrated Tippets and a bad-in-shape Milton. As he shouted for Nurse Hawkins stumbling at the reception hall, said nurse came out rather distraught by such a loud call from a tent behind him. He stopped his pace to make her recognize the body he was holding.

“Nurse, is the operation room occupied at the moment ?”, Jonathan spoke hastily, not caring about the looks he was gathering.

“No, doctor, but it is booked in twenty minutes.”

“Move the booking, I’m taking the operation room. Call Nurse Branagan and ask her to join me with two pouches of blood from my personal store, the tubes of IV in my office and a few doses of anesthetics. This is urgent, Nurse !”

She briskly nodded and departed.

“ACKROYD !”, he shouted anew across the reception hall, laying down Swansea on a free moving bed next to him and peering for a millisecond at the corridor leading to the left wing of the hospital. Seconds later, Dr. Reid heard mid-hurried footsteps and then a full run to the bed. Ackroyd was by his side.

“What do we have, doctor ?”, asked with a professional tone the doctor while helping moving Swansea towards the stairs.

“Several injuries both in the chest and face. Punctured left lung and hemothorax subsequently. Broken ribs at the third and fourth rows. Internal bleeding due to a stab wound around the liver.”

“Treatment ?”

“None.”

They climbed the stairs and soon enough bursted in the operation room. They moved the man to the operation table and proceeded to quickly undress him.

“Time spent unconscious ?”

“About a minute, a few seconds less. Nurse Branagan is on the way.”

Both doctors hurriedly prepared the tools for the operation. Reid took off his coat, pausing for two solid seconds. The coat was so bloodied and showed holes made by bullet and knife alike. His inner robes were not better, pierced and rattled as they were ; but whatever Ackroyd saw, he did not comment on it. They both went to wash their hands and scrubbed their arms thoroughly.

“I’ll handle the hemothorax. Deal with the stab wound.”

Ackroyd firmly nodded, and they went back to the patient.

“Heartbeat increased for over two minutes, stabilizing around 143 bpm. He’s lost a lot of blood already. Shortness of breath noticed and I’ll report at once.”

“The bleeding has stopped around the wound. The hemorrhage is clotted. Cleaning and suturing.”

At that moment, Nurse Branagan entered the room with all the medical material he asked.

“Thank you, Nurse. Hand on the catheter.”

Time was against them. Swansea’s heartbeat was decreasing. He repeated it aloud and, after spotting the correct location between the ribs, he dived the needle into the skin and right over the blood that was accumulating in the chest cavity. Jonathan willfully stopped breathing, refusing to inhale what he knew to be the bittersweet aroma of his friend ; sucking it out, and making sure with his Ekon eyes he wasn’t missing any, he cautiously retired the catheter. He couldn’t prevent his hands from shaking as he tossed it in a nearby vessel.

He next prepared to do a blood transfusion with the materials needed.

Ackroyd’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the blood pouch.

“You _are not_ doing this, Dr. Reid.”

“He lost a significant amount of blood, Dr. Ackroyd. Soon enough the patient risks a ventricular fibrillation, his beating is falling already.”

“You are about to jeopardize the thin probabilities of saving him !”, he replied with his regular wrath on the subject. “Your experimentations could possibly leave out any chances of—”

“Tell me for sure, doctor, how is the usual procedure going to help the case ? It sets death as the end of such a state. If we don’t do this, we _will_ lose him !”

“You have no idea how is his blood going to react. Or do I have to remind you again of all your butchered soldiers and the causes of their death ?!”

“We’re losing him, doctors !”, intervened furiously Branagan, who was actively checking his pulse.

As Jonathan felt the heartbeat fade, his eyes widened lightly. He _was_ going to lose Edgar.

The two doctors stared at each other. There was defiance, but also decision pending.

“Do your bloody transfusions”, declared Ackroyd first with obvious frustration, moving quickly around the body. “Nurse, Epinephrine, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So our story starts here, where Swansea is saved. Frankly, I thought many things could be "fixed" because I hated each of the outcomes the final decision could lead to. Swansea getting as reckless as ever if you save him is definitely n o t an option, even if it is supposedly coherent with his natural eagerness. And, I cannot picture Reid just brushing off months of relationship with the administrator who obviously considers him as a friend, gave counsel and, yes, lied to him multiple times, but it was never with some twisted intentions as our doctor seems to consider here. Jonathan just saying "welp, was a good run, u messed up so die" or even worse "i'm a demon and you were never a bitch but i'm hungry anyway" is kinda... disappointing. I wanted action, I wanted despair as he watches his friend die, specially went it comes to a peaceful Reid. I wanted him to acknowledge people makes mistakes, something he is no stranger to in fact.  
> So now, I got it and it's quite a relief.  
> See more next chapter !


	2. Broken truce

Jonathan was sitting for God knows how long. A few minutes, perhaps, that seemed like an unholy amount of hours. He was exhausted, lost in his mind, his hands covered with blood from the previous fights and surgery. Like a good part of his face and clothes, he noticed as he risked a glance to a reflective glass in the OR. The reddish substance contrasted immensely against his pale skin, and his agar expression somehow matched his miserable appearance. He was too much aware of the substance sticking to his cold hands, but at least… At least the catheter was still full. His back propped up against the hard, cold wall, hands loose over his thighs, Reid’s head felt empty and overflowing with sensations at the same time.

Swansea survived. Somehow, Ackroyd and himself defied the odds and managed to restart the heart after it stopped beating. They finished their insane work that lasted over an hour ten minutes ago ; Branagan was preparing the administrator a bed downstairs, where Harriet Jones used to rest as a patient, and Ackroyd went to change clothes or whatever in the office next door. Jonathan was listening to the deep, regular sound of Swansea’s heartbeat, a few steps away from him. What a warrior, really. He could have lost him, he chastised himself, lost him for good ; the idea of making him a vampire did cross his mind, but… Was Swansea ready for such a burden ? Would Reid even be a proper Maker ? How did it not sound like a maddening idea from the very beginning ?

Endless questions tortured his thoughts, rendering him so distracted that he didn’t hear Ackroyd calling him a few steps away from him.

“Dr. Reid”, he said louder, maybe for the second or third time.

Jonathan lifted his eyes full of unspoken distraught, and made contact with the hazel observative ones.

“One would think you would be badly injured by the looks of your ragged and stabbed clothing, doctor”, he said calmly, slightly turning his head aside, underlining his implied question.

“I’m fine, Dr. Ackroyd. The blood… The blood’s not mine.”

At that, the doctor cocked both eyebrows in disbelief, his hands buried in the broad pockets of his white blouse.

“Do not pretend to fool me. I have served as a medic in the army. Or are the clothes not yours as well ?”

Jonathan just stared, only wanting to be left alone. _And sulk_ , he newly scolded himself at once. His fellow colleague just proved today that he was trustworthy, competent, and, despite his strong dislike towards research fields, he showed professionalism by trusting the doctor in that delicate operation. A small step in their antagonist relationship, he would say. Or maybe it was just the heat of the moment. 

But, right there and without saying, Ackroyd was offering him his medical assistance, like Jonathan did so often with the rest of London. It warmed a little bit his dead heart.

“My injuries are treated, doctor.”

“Suit yourself”, he shrugged coolly.

He entered his office again ; Reid heard water running, and moments later Waverley came back with a wet fabric that he held out to his colleague, staring purposely at the end of the corridor.

“At least take some of the blood off. We wouldn’t want Dr. Swansea wake up and risk another cardiac arrest upon seeing your face, would we.”

The light joke made Jonathan look at him, but the latter still stared at the wall far away. He took the fabric and slowly scrubbed his face, as Ackroyd closed the door of his office and departed without a spared look.

Shaking his head, Reid got up and made a point in taking a shower and changing clothes. It would do help him feel less dirty and overwhelmed, he supposed, and a fresh set of clothes couldn’t hurt. Sadly, his favorite coat wasn’t spared during the fight with McCullum…

Strickland was sitting upright on the bed, pushed against the wall horizontally in the corridor where he and Ackroyd usually tended to their patients. His head was touching the wall too, turned aside, eyes closed. His position was very similar to Jonathan in the hallway of the OR ; hands loose and defeated posture ; most of his forehead was covered by a thin bandage encircling the head, ruffling his usually neat combed hair and showing some pools of blood, that dripped over his coat judging by the reddish stains. Jonathan got closer and bent a little over the bed. His Ekon eyes showed that he would be fine : a headache was blooming and just needed some time to fade away ; he wasn’t sleeping either.

“Dr. Strickland ?”

Thoreau turned his head to the caller. His face lighted up a bit.

“Dr. Reid, you’re okay.”

That simple statement surprised him a bit : his eyebrows went up for a few milliseconds.

“Of course I am. Why would you ever think I wouldn’t be ?”

“Well – those men were after you, judging by the way they were flaring, yelling your name. And, see”, he added pointing at his bandages, “they did not bothered to differentiate us from feral dogs.” He paused a little. “I saw their leader before ; you just missed him leave half an hour after you roared Dr. Ackroyd’s name. He was in a terrible shape, really.”

Jonathan acknowledged that and took the liberty to slowly sit next to Thoreau on the bed ; the doctor budged a bit on the side to make him some space.

“What happened, Thoreau ?”, the Ekon asked in a low voice, just as his colleague let out a frowning sigh.

“I was on my way to check on the supply boxes outside the hospital , when I nearly ran into five of those guards. They were carrying weapons of all sorts, and that is fairly not permitted for strangers. I…”, he mulled for a few seconds, slightly shaking his head and grimacing. “I got angry, I could not point out why exactly. We have fragile patients here, for God’s sake ! This is not some attraction you can decide to visit at any given time of the day. So I stood at the door, and told them to leave immediately.”

He lost himself in his thoughts apparently, eyes low.

“It was not very welcomed”, finished Reid quietly.

“No, it wasn’t. I did not see the blow come, but Ackroyd thinks I took a crossbow in the head, not any less than that. Stunned me for a little while. Bastards”, he muted, a bit ashamed next. “Excuse the foul language.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Dr. Strickland. You should get some rest. Did you get treated for your headache ?”

“Perceptive as usual, doctor. Yes, Dr. Ackroyd helped me already. You should check on the other patients, sir, for I cannot say what happened afterwards. Oh, and my colleague filled me with the details about Dr. Swansea’s operation.” A glow danced in his eyes. “Well done, Dr. Reid.”

Accepting the praise with a smile and with a light touch on his colleague’s shoulder, he departed to check on Tippets and Milton.

Edgar’s eyes idly opened. He stared blankly at the brownish wooden ceiling, the planking and boards of his hospital. Pain reflected on the glassy look, green irises slowly accommodating to the electric light hanging above his head, against the wall ; his fingers twitched rather instinctively, then more slowly and purposely, fingertips caressing the soft and clean sheets covering his chest and lower part of the body.

Jonathan was deadly still. The numerous mental conflicts had dragged him into a profound disconnected state, he had to admit. Two nights ago, after using the facility’s bathroom to scrub away the clotting blood on his damp skin, the sweat and the shameful famished thoughts, he put on new clothes that he luckily kept at all times in his locker, even if they weren’t nearly as comfortable and stylish as his usual attire – well, after everything that happened, he couldn’t really care about that. He had taken Thoreau’s shift to let the man rest despite his strong aversion to it – “I am here to assist you, Dr. Reid, not to be a burden !” ; but his steps had swayed a little as soon as he tried to get up. Definitely, he was sure going back to sit on the bed.

Now that everything was in order – well, in order as it could be, as he had tried to dodge an infinite stack of questions from every living being in the hospital—, he finally sat down to wait for his friend to wake up, to no reaction whatsoever during long hours. They did administer small doses of medical opium to help him rest, but the fact that it took several days for him to ginger up was not an excellent sign.

When Swansea risked a glance aside, their eyes met. Jonathan tried hard to be angry, to make the poor man regret everything that has happened through a condescending and chastising look ; he meant it to be an icy cold, but truth was… It was a relief the administrator was conscious again. He didn’t want to lose him ; despite everything, he was still one of his only friends.

The green ones transmitted a vague uncertainty, flickering as to translate his conscience’s inner fight against the hazy fog.

“You are a fool, Edgar”, were the first words the steady figure spoke, no emotion whatsoever showing on his neat features.

“I will not deny your words, my friend”, the doctor winced painfully, his eyes falling over Jonathan’s legs. He looked immensely tired as his voice sounded strained and forced. 

“You are a brilliant scientist and a competent doctor, but the enthusiasm and the bewilderment are of a small child. You grew as a man but never left your young and naïve point of view.” 

He did not know what point he was trying to prove as his vision faded to a grey and black filter, revealing the vivid and tempting red heart pulsing its contents all over the mortal body. _Such a childish escape_ , he scolded himself ; it was not out of hunger – he had had his fair share of those disgusting rats –. It was a habit, a bad one, to remind himself that he was surrounded with walking fountains of ecstasy, but the goal was also to see how sick and needy most of them were. The doctor in him had pushed the boundaries so many times ; he hadn’t taken a single life from the Pembroke. But watching Edgar’s beating had always been accompanied with a comforting feeling, calm usually gushing over him. He was not dead.

The voice resonated against the walls.

“I was always convinced this is the necessary behavior of every practitioner”, Swansea answered with some ease. “A keen and sharp spirit should also be accompanied, if not driven by curiosity and a strong desire to achieve progress.”

Recklessness. Jonathan snapped his eyes up to Edgar’s and narrowed them upon recognition, his Ekon sight immediately leaving. He was about to voice his angered disbelief when the patient anticipated him.

“Do not misunderstand me, Jonathan. I deeply regret what… what I have done—”

He got interrupted by his own harsh coughing, a consequence of rushing his sentence. Intense pain shot across Edgar’s face as small droplets of blood came out with the exhaled air, and he forced his head back to the pillows, repressing his groans as best as he could. In a second, Jonathan was looming over him with a stethoscope in hand, and when the administrator went to scratch his painful chest – an instinctive gesture –, a cold hand softly seized his and an even colder diaphragm started exploring his damp skin.

“Do not overstrain yourself, Edgar”, he spoke softly, concentrated. “You barely escaped a complicated intervention. I managed to suture the bleeding gap, but it is fragile and you will likely keep sequelae from your torture.”

The breathing was irregular, and he could hear whistling inside ; his lungs were slightly filled with liquids, blood supposedly, but his sight gave nothing serious away. It was part of the healing process.

“Please detail the operation.”

“Dr. Ackroyd and I performed it. You were unconscious when we laid you down in the OR for about a solid minute. I took care of the hemothorax, fixed your puncture and made a blood transfusion.”

“Dr. Ackroyd permitted this ? I must say I am surprised.”

He breathed as deeply as he could for the stethoscope procedure.

“Indeed. He, for his part, suture your stab wound and revived your heart, and he did a fair job with everything.”

“For how long was I dead, if I may inquire ?”

“Forty seconds, about so.”

“Jonathan”, he started as the latter pulled out his instrument and tugged it around his neck, “How did you manage to get me to the Hospital in time ? The theatre was incredibly far away and I was so badly injured. There is no way I could’ve survived the long walk.”

The doctor sighed, took the chair he was previously sitting on and got it closer to the bed. He had to admit it, after all : he cared about him. Swansea’s eyes had regained their usual cunning, the sparkle of observation and the certain mindfulness always lurking in the honeyed strings of his irises. He grasped again the administrator’s hand between his and locked his gaze on it.

“I shifted.”

Silence accompanied the declaration. He clenched his jaws.

“You were about to die, Edgar. The moment you gave up made me realize I did not want to lose you. Despite the horrors you unleashed, I… found myself unable to hold any hate, and felt quite desperate once outside. Something shifted in me while I was holding you. Something very primal and light, some inner power I had not acknowledged so far : I apparated us both directly near the Pembroke.”

He raised his face and stared at Swansea, with what had to be pools of sadness in his eyes. _Behold the mighty Dr. Reid, so powerful and promising, yet shaken to the bone_ , some foreign and outside part of himself told ; he repressed a grimace.

It wasn’t the first time this light touch manifested inside the Ekon and saved him from horrendous situations. More than once, when the pressure would be unbearably high, some carefully placed faith, the rush of adrenaline would trigger various and unpredictable reactions ; and, every time, he felt like that _something_ was getting closer, closer to his spirit if there could be any kind of directions on a spiritual level. _Something_ was approaching and _something_ was trying to warn. Once, he tried to signal this to Lady Ashbury, but she would brush off the topic ; something like this “could only be the doing of a greater vampire” than everyone else. It wouldn’t help, as that didn’t placated his worries.

Could it be the red ghost that followed him everywhere and numbed him to the upmost point whenever he would appear ?

There was much to do, and many unknowns on the horizon. He imperceptibly shook his head. It was the first time he talked about this with Edgar.

“You know the rest of the story”, he resumed after a short time.

“I am flattered, Jonathan, to know that you hold such an esteem of me. I know the painful backstory that must have led to your reaction, and am nonetheless deeply grateful for saving my life – along with Dr. Ackroyd.” The grasped hand tightened on the lower one. “You know, even if my words will bring shame on me, I was convinced you would depart and leave me to my death in that terrible place. But I was mistaken, my friend. And I could only hope to retrieve your forgiveness one day.”

The tightness of their hands holding depicted a single representation : that Jonathan could not hope to achieve this mutual comprehension from anyone else. The Ekon flashed a smile : he did some terrible things indeed, but deep inside, somewhere in the whereabouts of his soul, he had already forgiven him.

“There are many things to apologize about, and they shan’t be addressed to me. You told me, right after Mary’s funeral, that you believed in redemption. I do, too, now. I know you will build up my forgiveness yourself, Edgar, as I am sure you will do your best to fix your mistake and bring an end to this epidemic once and for all.”

Swansea was about to answer, when a loud shouting startled them both ; it seemed to come from the reception hall. Hesitant at first, the two men looked at each other before the doctor got up and peered through the window of Swansea’s room. Out there, in the courtyard, something shadowy was moving quickly but grotesquely ; like some sort of an appalling fight. Then, rushing under the light, he thought his cheeks would never appear as ashen as in that moment : a shotgun sparkled under the synthetic light of one of the lampposts, that was forcefully shoved into Milton’s head before he tried to land a punch.

Priwen. Of course, it had to be Priwen.

Cursing under his breath, he used his Ekon sight to peer through the walls – there was not one, but at least seven heartbeats he did not know of, and every one of them way too close to the staff members or to patients. He had to act, and quickly !

“It’s Priwen. They’re back”, Jonathan hushed blankly. “Stay here, Edgar ! Whatever happens, _do not get caught_!”, commanded the Ekon before sprinting out of the room.

They were there. They were back for him.

Passing by curled up patients and some hiding ones, he bursted into the hall, in a state similarly agitated. A Priwen guard, short, wearing a blue jacket and beret, was bending over the young nurse prostrated against the counter, a hazardous hand on her cheek. He muted something, but as soon as the hand started to stroke, Hawkins flawlessly slapped him across the face with a monstrous banging sound and tried to flee ; Jonathan saw the outrage and the ire of such a humiliation lighten in the eyes of the swordsman.

As he made a move to grab her by the medical uniform, a crystal beaker landed soundly on his face, shattering in pieces and knocking the Priwen soldier who let out a shout of pain. Blood poured out of his nose, and he took a few steps back as the nurse yelled. The Ekon furiously thrusted forward and jumped on the reception desk, wasting no time ; the moment the blue man could see again was the moment Reid’s feet landed flat on his collarbone, dragging the bodies down in the trajectory of Jonathan’s jump. The man’s back hit the floor and his clavicle broke under the weight and strength of the doctor.

The scream was hair-rising.

Jonathan rolled over the shoulders, carried away by the impulse, and finished his course on one knee. Snapping his head up when hearing another heartbeat right in front of him, he met the incredulous face of Strickland. He thought none of it.

He quickly got up and followed other battling sounds. If his colleague was stunt there, then that meant no foe was threatening the left wing. Good. He rushed outside just in time to see Milton being thrown straight at empty supply boxes, mildly cushioning the fall and earning a grunt from the ambulance driver.

This time, he drew his pistol and retrieved the guard’s sword from the ground. They wanted to kill him ? Fine. They threatened to take down the staff as well ? Hope they wrote their bloody testament.

Because none of them will make it out alive. And he was going to strike back with human skills.

Three men were circling around the fallen Milton. Taking the opportunity of their distraction, he immediately shot the closest man. Where he aimed for the head, the bullet penetrated right through the shoulder and subsequently the heart, that exploded under the sudden pressure. As the shotgun man dropped like a potato sack, the two others swore profusely and turned their weapons to him : one crossbow and a long-shot gun. Fat luck.

He managed to dodge the arrow on fire and the long projectile, both striking the wall behind him. He took cover behind a bed, that he promptly knocked over as a shielding ; it wouldn’t resist long, but it would do. Then, tossing the mattress and lifting the metallic structure vertically to cover himself completely, he sprinted towards the guards, thrusting along the whole thing with an enraged roar, heart beating fast and blood warming up in his dead veins. The arrows bounced on the metal frame as he finally blew the long-shot gunner with it and let go, stunning him. Sword in hand, he then made a forceful contact with the crossbow carrier and cut him deeply the arm, tearing the thin cape and making blood gush like a fountain.

The coppery scent of the pulsing substance awoke the famished beast inside of Jonathan with fangs all out, a beast that hadn’t fed on humans for a very long time – he had to close fiercely his eyes not to be blinded by the red filter of his ever-lasting hunger. But instead of throwing himself at the opportunity, a perfect mastery of his will bent the primal side and fueled his anger to hit harder, further, without mercy. The sword dived even deeper in the man’s shoulder, who let out a groan of surprised pain, as all his new strength had passed through his arm.

But the Ekon didn’t sense the other soldier reload another arrow. He barely perceived the ominous clicking sound when the thin projectile sank into his back, scraping a shoulder blade, piercing a lung and missing the heart by an inch. Jonathan lost his breath. The pain was vivid, so plain that his thoughts seem to stop for a solid second ; it gave just enough time to the flame archer to strike back, and Jonathan encased a wonderful blow that dislocated his jaw. He stumbled to the side.

Knocked out, the fall seemed eternal as he became unaware of his surroundings. His senses went mad with the dizziness in a fraction of milliseconds and, unintentionally, his sharp hearing fell on multiple heartbeats. Frantic, pulsing, desperate. He recognized the passed out Milton not far from him, the clean and regular bloodstream of Harvey Fiddick, the unaware peace of Newton Blight, his heart so close to that of Oswald Thatcher, laced in an eternal love. And finally, Edgar Swansea, whose heart missed a beat at that exact moment.

The light clicked inside the Ekon.

Not here. Not like this.

His hands went to stop the fall, straight to the floor, and support him in a hip-hop dance style for his legs to unexpectedly throw themselves back like an angry horse, and knock off the flame crossbow. Roaring with his fangs out, he pushed himself back on his feet and gripped the arm of his closest foe, pulled him aside with an incredible strength and used his body as a shield, that effectively protected him from the third projectile shot. The other man didn’t even have the time to understand his mistake before his screaming fellow was thrown in a very similar way as Milton over him and thrusted them both backwards.

One of the crossbow’s arches was tainted with blood, a very familiar one.

Quickly, he primely invalidated the flame soldier by shooting his head with a deadly precision, and before the latest could regain his equilibrium, a thin sword penetrated his chest and pierced his heart.

Exhaling a hiccup, the last thing the soldier saw before he released his last breath were Jonathan’s cold, mad eyes.

The warrior doctor extracted the sword with a swift wrist movement and let the weapon fall with a clicking sound, his breath short. Watching the bodies that just piled up, he then proceeded to rip the projectile off his back and grunt with determination : it ached badly, but his irritation had peaked way above the pain. Nevertheless, when turning around, he noticed an agitated colleague slumped down against the fabric of the tent he was sheltering. The terror in his blank eyes as Jonathan approached him were not towards him, but from the terrible fight the doctor just witnessed.

“Corcoran”, the vampire pressed with a slight worry as he rapidly bent down to the same level, “you need to get to the hospital. Tell the staff to close the doors and barricade the whole building if possible.”

He helped him getting up as the physician nodded despite the shock he was experiencing.

“Dr. Reid”, he managed to inquire shakily, “are you asking to be left outside with—”

But as soon as he stood completely on his feet, his question trailed off as the words faltered, and his eyes widened. Footsteps, he heard. A dreadful click. Jonathan did not think twice, and, with a blind determination, forthright sheltered Tippets with his body, arms spreading around the doctor’s space, hands on the fabric. Ready for the shock.

An overwhelming pain made his head snap back, eyelids retracted painfully, his mouth wide open. He couldn’t bother hide his fangs. The shot stake had gone through his main arteries.

He struggled to breathe, his lungs filling with liquids. Hands clasped on the tent. His head slowly fell back as his lips could only deliver desperate hiccups ; Jonathan’s legs gave away, his body slumping on his colleague whose arms wrapped themselves around his bloodied coat. Something felt terribly wrong. His chest was reacting, not his blood.

“Jo—Jonathan ! Jonathan, my dear God—”

But the Ekon only felt the warmth of the embrace for a few seconds, before the stake pulled backwards with brute force, snatching him hardly from Tippets who got dragged by the pull. The stake was linked to a solid rope, and someone was retrieving with brief takes his golden price.

It burnt. _It burnt it burnt it burnt it burnt_.

If only the deadly projectile had been his only wound. Before Reid could even fully comprehend how on earth he could be so strangely dragged, eyes completely lost, his mind caught from what seemed to be very far away a satisfied laughter followed by another clicking sound. And suddenly, his vision was covered by a thick green fog.

Then, the pain just got next level.

Inhaling the toxic vapes, his lungs burnt and imploded inside ; his skin started to be _digested_ , melting right on multiple spots ; it went damp, and he twitched and cried and coughed and scratched. Something in that acrid scent blocked his claws and fangs, his body reacting in such an eerie way -- the pain was everywhere, not dull, but incredibly vivid, tearing apart every fiber of his body. A thousand hands were slicing his muscles, scraping his bones. Breaking Jonathan’s will. Soon enough, his vision went useless, his hearing faded ; he was thrown back to the most dreadful fights, the first flee from the mass grave, repeatedly shot and stabbed for pure pleasure. The torture, back again. The incomprehension. The terror.

The showering did not end.

At that exact moment, Jonathan thought he lost his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The introduction is nearly complete. I expect updates to come a little faster, now that I'm on holidays.   
> Enjoy, everyone !


	3. Death is a strange thing

“Hey, you fucking bastard !”, tossed a defiant voice from behind the massive Priwen soldier.

Clay Cox was a clever man. A scum of the worst sort, for sure, but hey, he didn’t survived this long only to be butchered by a hand-me-down, putrid militia attacking every fucking thing that dared to move around. He was the leader of the Wet Boot Boys, for fuck’s sake. So, obviously, the favor got returned when some stupid soldier pretended to shoot him followed by another one trying to mince him with a fancy sword. Nice try. They learnt their lesson, he hoped, as he had tossed the last body aside.

Cox was smoking a bunch of cigarettes around the back entry of the hospital when those men decided to enter rather violently through the gates. He was minding his own god damned business, no more. No need for them to shove him away.

Well, what’s done is done.

He then decided to head back to the front gate, scratching his chin as how to put up the fact that two bodies were now blocking the entry, when he heard other gunshots and metallic sounds. At first, pretty much annoyed, he wavered as whether risking a good view or simply turn back. Meh. Screw this, he wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody.

And when he finally reached the place, he first saw through the grills Reid curled up on the ground. Attached to a leash ? From the back ? He was all squeaking and pitiful ; and that’s when he noticed a moving bulk to his left, partly hidden by the entry columns, carrying some large flamethrower – that, instead of throwing flames, threw a stinky gas. The guy did seem to take a hell lot of pleasure in showering the doc with it. Bastard.

He was not the loyal type, but man, the hospital was HIS territory since he got his ass up here. And that rich Reid would own him for saving his wealthy, pompous life.

So, naturally, that was when he drew his gun, insulted the massive bastard and, with a keen eye, shot the gas mask first, the filter cap popping and leaving a smoking trail behind. And then – how could he let that opportunity slip – he shot the carboy hanging on the soldier’s back with a delighted snarl. It exploded in a thick cloud of green gas, and that bloke soon enough choked on his poisonous shit.

But even before he could get closer to the merciless show, even before he could notice Reid’s insane thrashing, a bullet caught him by surprise and hit his left hip, ripping a painful groan out of his mouth. Instantly looking for the culprit, he barely dodged a second bullet and shot the fuming, shorter soldier who swore at his colleague’s death. He touched the shoulder, but he didn’t savor the victory as he hid behind the tents and crossed over the boxes to get to fistfight that dog, despite his injured hip.

Hearing him close, he surprised the other man through the tents and landed a sound punch that broke the bloke’s nose, only to be immediately gripped and thrown towards the guard-rail. Both men danced around violently, tripping on supply boxes, tents and other bullshit spread across the pavement. The soldier returned a vicious hit on the stomach, and, trying to shove Cox over the rail, both of them ended falling on the docks.

The soldier fell on his chin at the same time the body went backwards. The spine could not take the pressure and cracked like a branch.

Cox fell on his head and, disoriented, only understood he had fallen in the canal when his lungs promptly filled themselves with water, rendering him unable to breathe. He wasn’t alright. He couldn’t see clear.

His broken hip preventing him from properly swimming, he just waved his hands, desperate to catch some air, only to choke further on water. His senses were failing him – He didn’t see anything.

Well, Reid. He fucking owned him one.

Cox’s intervention had opened a breach. The guard had choked on his own toxic gas, and the last soldier fell over with him. The sound of splashing water that ensued the fight wasn’t Tippets main concern, as Dr. Strickland and Dr. Ackroyd sprinted across the courtyard as soon as the explosion detonated behind the soldier.

“Dr. Reid ! Jonathan, can you hear me ?!”, his agitated voice called out, careful not to approach too closely his fellow colleague before the vapes dissolve entirely in the air. But, damn it, he wasn’t looking good.

The skilled doctor, who just performed the most daring and impressive fight against those soldiers, was now laying of the floor, curled up and squeaking in a worrisome manner. Not only green clots were sticking to his skin and clothing, but that stake was lodged in his chest, a full metallic projectile that protruded both out of his back and chest. There were no hint left of the powerful man in his lost eyes.

Milton grunted as he rose from the supply boxes he was shoved into, rubbing his eye with one hand and holding himself from the ground with the other. Then he noticed the doctor.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-- Dr. Reid !”, he exclaimed as he clumsily tried to get off the boxes, making him trip at every step ; Strickland had gotten closer to help him.

“Careful, everyone !”, warned Tippets from the other side. “Do not approach him until you can’t spot any greenish fluid in the air.”

“ _What happened_ ?”, Milton stressed with a higher voice when noticing the four bodies of his assailants lying dead on the ground. “Wh— Did he fend off those bastards all by himself ?”, Milton added in a similar posture, slightly leaning forward, before he seemed to remember something and without warning started running to the main building, about the same moment Tippets finally decreed it was safe to touch the fallen colleague.

“Jonathan, please look at me. I am going to get you to the operation room, do you understand ?”, he hushed while carefully and slowly moving his arms to the side. But the tall man was muttering very quietly and, looking for a response, Tippets brought his ear to his very mouth only to vaguely distinguish nonsense babbling— punctuated by casual high pitches. He waved his hand in front of the doctor’s eyes, to no reaction at all : the emptiness of the look made him uneasy, compromising his diagnosis from bad to worst. “Nurse Branagan ?”, he shouted aloud, looking around while hurrying to get a moving bed. “Nurse Hawkins ?”

“They’re inside, trying to calm the patients”, informed Ackroyd with the pressed professional tone medical emergencies required from doctors. His blouse and hands were covered in blood. “Level of consciousness ?”

“Dr. Reid, can you constrict my hand ?”, Strickland inquired while taking Reid’s hand – freezing hand — in a handshake mimic, to no reaction at all. Even worse, he suddenly stopped whining, and his head fell limp to the ground.

The only thing that guaranteed he was not dead was his occasional attempted breaths. Ackroyd took his pulse with a tight expression.

“Unresponsive. Stupor”, both Tippets and Strickland declared, the latter taking his stethoscope and inspecting the depths of Reid’s chest, carefully avoiding the stake ; the young doctor seemed to try not to swallow hardly, as shoving off a complete despair at the amount of blood and some yellowish substance swelling out of the wound. “His lungs are filling with liquids, and he’s losing a lot of blood. We need to put him on the bed, God damn it !”

The doctors exchanged a knowing look. The one that knew death was lurking very closely.

“Take him by the shoulder on your side, I will do the same and we’ll have to lay him on his left side on the bed. Tippets, take the legs. Hurry !”, commanded Ackroyd without hesitation.

Jonathan felt his heart falter and pump blood irregularly. He opened his eyes—well, he had them open already, but now he was consciously _seeing_. But his vision was obstructed by a white screen. _That moved ?_

He was so tired. So, so tired, like the time he endured a triple shift in the army. His throat was sore, numb and itchy, but he perceived a deaf pain looming in his chest that threatened to blossom as soon as he regained enough consciousness.

_Like that was going to happen_. The man was spiraling out of sensations, light-headed and dizzy. Blood loss, his mind reasoned. But he was not thirsty, surprisingly enough, the gnawing instinct dormant. A metallic instrument clattered loudly on the ground, and someone cursed with a low voice. He couldn’t move his hands nor his legs, his mouth felt like it was full of thick cake.

“I need another catheter. We have another unsuspected hemorrhage beneath the sutures. Christ, this is a mess.”

“Dr. Tippets, please qualify the heart rate.”

“It’s irregular and slowly decreasing. We’re dangerously flirting with a cardiopulmonary arrest. Breathing ?”

“It stopped a few moments ago, but his bpm stabilized anew.”

“Without intervention ?”

“Without intervention. His lung is functioning properly.”

Jonathan felt more acutely the suturing points, the working hands of what he remembers to be doctors. His… His colleagues. He was a doctor, of course he was.

“This man is a box full of surprises.”

“What would worry me is that the box in question is not warming up. The hypothermia affected even the blood, yet he didn’t show any physiological changes.”

“He’s been freezing even right after the fight. This is not due to the gas intoxication.”

But something felt very strange about his body, _missing_ in fact. Somehow it’s like he never expected, or more like he shouldn’t be on an operation table. Why couldn’t he be—

Healing.

His body wasn’t healing. He mid-closed his eyes and tried not to focus on the instrument that were rattling his insides, specially his heart.

“A hypothalamus dysfunction, surely. Did he take any serious blow to the head ?”

“The man was practically untouchable, Ackroyd. But yes, he did take a blow to the jaw. However the repercussions seemed light, since he got up immediately after the hit. It could be some sort of disease he keeps under control, knowing the man.”

“Any way we might learn a bit more about it ? We wouldn’t want to really check what’s inside that brilliant skull of his, would we.”

_Would we._

“As far as I am aware, Reid never mentioned such a condition.”

“Okay. All the burns are patched. He will keep some nasty scars, but I hope that will be the only side effects. What type of substance was it anyway ?”

“Can’t say.” A moment of pause. “The arteries are completely sutured, and the blood is flowing correctly. Good. It’s an incredible chance he’s still alive. Are we still risking a CPR ?”

“No. His heart stabilized. A miracle worker, _the man_. Alright, are we ready to close ?”

The words were flowing through Jonathan’s weak mind, tangling themselves in a ridiculous show of confusion. He recognized the doctors’ voices, but couldn’t make sense of anything he was hearing. He just… lied there. The confusion was somehow so comfortable – some drug side effect, his scientific self screamed in knowledge. The blurriness from his vision was still dancing before his eyes, a deep incarnated voice singing gently in his head. He could die, right there on the spot, and if death was this peaceful… He would gladly let go.

Jonathan’s hand moved, against his will, and gripped a blouse. The fabric shifted weirdly, pausing suddenly, and just as quickly a figure levelled to his face.

“Strickland, did you give Reid enough Nozinan ?”, went the awfully loud voice of Ackroyd, his face incredibly close to Jonathan’s.

“The standard dose, why ?”

“Dr. Reid, do you hear me ?”, asked again the doctor, and when no answer came, he pried an eye open. Sentences, songs were playing in the far back of his mind – a whole symphony of high notes. His eyelids clasped shut.

_There, there. Soon it will be over._ His body was itching badly.

“A single dose of chloroform, now !”, Ackroyd ordered instantly, someone ran away. “Christ, the man’s awake. The effects shouldn’t wear off this soon.”

The gas. They didn’t deal with the gas. But it didn’t matter anymore – time was nothing, seconds became hours, minutes weren’t even a word. He was dying, and he would taste the releasing kiss of the Parka and finally exhale his last string of life. So… comfortable.

But was he… Was he going to encounter Swansea ? Did he fail him again ?

“Ack…rd”, Jonathan trailed off. His hand grasped thin air, but a warm one went to clutch it.

Something slid inside his veins, a cold and repulsing substance that pushed on his tissues as it made its way towards the heart. His last thoughts went over the hurt administrator before letting go, the pathetic body slumping further against the table.

_“Come on, Jonathan ! You’re too slow ! Slow like a snail”, accused cheerfully a gaggling Mary._

_“I’m not slow, I have bigger legs !”, the brother answered back with bitter words, as he was chasing his sister across the greenish park. “You can run faster with your tiny feet. ‘Cause you’re lighter !”_

_“Ha ! It’s longer legs who can run fast. You’re just slow like an old granny.”_

_Out of breath, the little boy progressively halted his run and supported his upper body with hands on the knees, sweating profusely and resting a little with a frustrated snarl. The spring weather was warm and he did enjoy the sparkly aspect everything had under the shining sun. The leaves were greener, the sky bluer, the joy brighter._

_Mary appeared from behind a tree with a playful and wholesome expression, laughing at his brother’s hopeless sport skills. She got closer to the now bad humored boy, holding out the toy she snatched from him not even a minute ago._

_“There, champion, a reward for your prowess”, she declared with a queen-like voice, prompting discreet laughers from the couple that was idly following the youngsters. Jonathan watched as his father, Aubrey, offered a bright smile to both his children, before turning his loving look to Emelyne._

_Father ?_

_Jonathan was out of sight, watching this scene from far ; he did not comprehend the memories he was watching. The tall man looked down at his aching hands, noticed the flat fingernails, and strangely they didn’t seem to be quite right. Mary was standing a couple feet away from him, suddenly throwing herself at his arms, pulling his brother into a tight hug._

_“Jonathan, it’s really you ! I started to believe you would never be back. Don’t ever leave my side again, Johnny. I’m begging you. Jonathan…”_

_“Mary, I—”_

_Then, the slim and fragile body he was holding so dearly molded in his embrace and melted into sand, leaving the man clutching the air with hands full with bloodied grits. He struggled to breathe as the scene shifted before his lost eyes : the sun, the park and his parents disappeared as the kind figure of Edgar loomed far away, out of an infinite distance, back turned. Jonathan felt tears running down his friend’s cheeks, and he understood that he was going to die like his poor Mary. That he condemned him, and that he was going to lose him forever._ _He felt his lips move, calling for him, but no sound came out of his throat. He tried to run, but only useless sacks of meat responded to the command. He then noticed he was tied up in the same position he found the dying Swansea, arms pulling hard on his shoulders, threatening to break._

_But Edgar was not there anymore. Instead, a red ethereal figure was floating a few inches away from his. He struggled, again and again against the ties, managing only to glimpse the face of the statue. “The furious streams of time are emptying into a seaside of blood, my child”, the figure warned with a clear gloom on his features despite the distortion of Jonathan’s vision, he noted with thick, dull thoughts. “Leave your attachments, for they enslave your soul. Leave your boundaries, for you are infinite.”_

_A bright light pulsed from inside, illuminating his surroundings and drowning Jonathan in a pool of numbness ; the switch, the switch, he heard himself repeat frantically. Lost._


	4. Underneath the surface

Jonathan was asleep. For almost four days now. The calm appearance his features were baring did not translate the inner turmoil the Ekon’s mind dived into during the intervention ; the physical torture had won over his will as the needles sank in his skin over and over again. The only thing he felt before fainting was the grateful warmth Ackroyd’s hand provided his as well as the tight grasp while he endured everything, under the work of Tippets.

And yet he did not wake up from it. His body was not fine. He was not recovering well, but the heart kept stubbornly beating as waiting for the owner to finally rise.

Swansea was just aside, sitting on a wheelchair, observing with a dull sadness the poor state of his employee. He didn’t recover completely from his own operation yet, but he had insisted to be carried to Jonathan’s side at least three hours per day ; he lightened quite an argument with the nurses about that. He didn’t even bother to enter the room on plain daylight, and had also to strongly insist to keep the curtains drawn at every moment of the day ; it was likely he would not want to see his friend inadvertently burn by the sunrays ; a gesture a tad hard to explain to others.

A few days earlier, the day he woke up, Edgar had extracted himself from the bed the very moment Jonathan bursted out of his room, confronting Priwen with his human abilities. He managed to peer through the window, witnessing the defeat of an already wounded Milton, the execution of those soldiers and the intoxication of his friend. The unexpected intervention of Clay Cox and his mysterious disappearance. The thrashing of an insane Ekon. The latter had triggered a wide range of emotions, battling over Edgar’s features, as trying to decide the best course of action ; which was certainly going back to rest. He had yet to regain his autonomy back then.

However, it showed that the worst part of it all was acknowledging that he “is fine, passed out near the end when the sedatives stopped working”. Swansea had twisted his lips in response, the sole reaction the other doctors could obtain ; this was bad news already they didn’t notice that the vampire’s body was restructuring itself, meaning that something was _really wrong_ , but he did not voice any suggestions. He did not voice anything at all, in fact. The inquiring and slightly worried looks he earned slid over the impassiveness freezing his face.

Brain death was not a common option among the vampiric community. Edgar dismissed the possibility. “No, nothing points towards a brain death. He may be in coma, and he just needs to rest”, became his litany whenever the topic was brought up.

Then again, Jonathan could not be labelled as common.

The very night he was set in a nearby bedroom, freeing the passage from his own bedroom to the right, the staff was kind enough to clean the room and dust the furniture, settling the unconscious man on the old bed. The three doctors that operated Jonathan that day all came out worn-out and exhausted, looking like they were about to fall asleep right on their spot. Swansea did not pressed them for a round a questions, but after warmly congratulating them for their tremendous job, he did ask to keep the stake that pierced through his arteries. They had done an incredible work and obviously deserved a well-earned break, but all of them knew the administrator couldn’t afford to send home the three night shift doctors that were left, now that Jonathan and himself were indisposed.

As he checked by himself : Jonathan was not healing, not even remotely, and not waking up as well. He immediately had wrote a missive to Lady Ashbury, in the vain hopes to help elucidate this worrisome mystery.

The door behind him opened, and Ackroyd entered the room. He, as well as Tippets, had taken the case ; the latter, who was usually busy taking care of the outside patients, had asked to keep track on the case. After all, Jonathan saved his life. The old doctor had sat the next day with him, and told him how the Ekon had sheltered him with his body without a single hesitation : the distraught and tired look he bared while talking did not go unnoticed by his superior and friend.

“He didn’t lose a second to protect me. Like his life was a mere fact one would not bother to think about. I never saw such a pure act of foolishness and selflessness resumed in a matter of seconds, Edgar, it’s… frightening.”

He had mulled over his thoughts for a few seconds, before turning a determined look at Swansea.

“I owe him. I promise to do everything that is in my power to bring that carcass back to life.”

Ackroyd saluted his employer with a respectful head bob.

“Good evening, Dr. Swansea. How is our local star feeling tonight ?”

“I cannot say, Dr. Ackroyd, for he remained silent despite my numerous questions, sadly.”

The doctor went over his colleague and started the usual routine check. Chart in hand, he took his pulse, checked his correct breathing with the stethoscope, retracted his eyelids to test the pupils’ reaction to light. Noted his ever-lasting low temperature with a frustrated sigh, and checked the wounds for any possible infection. Everything was clean, yet not a single little change could be noticed. Swansea knew all of that already, of course. Ackroyd wrote everything down on the chart and turned over the administrator.

“May I take a sit, doctor ?”

“Please, be my guest”, he answered gesturing at a nearby empty chair, a bit startle by the demand. Waverley was not the type to just sit down and chat.

The wooden seat rattled against the scrappy floor as he got it closer to Swansea and sat down with a heavy thug and a quiet exhale. The Pembroke administrator observed the exhausted features of his employee as the latter kept staring at his patient with a thoughtful expression.

“Dr. Reid displayed an impressive show back in the courtyard, four days ago”, he finally said with a flat voice.

“Indeed. We discovered the facet of a skilled warrior and swordsman before he fell”, responded cautiously the other one.

“But you knew that already, didn’t you.”

He turned his head to look straight into Swansea’s eyes. To say he did not look happy was an understatement.

“You know, when you first hired Dr. Reid out of nowhere without previous warning, I only thought of it as a favor between privileged people”, he suddenly blurted out, eyes honest. “I am aware this happens. Bringing a new celebrity into town would certainly increase the number of patients, and fame would be brought to him as he so charitably aided a local hospital.” His gaze fled over Jonathan briefly. “Obviously my thoughts on the matter were only reinforced when his presence was nowhere near constant among the personnel.”

Swansea seemed not to know what to say before those accusations, taken aback. Ackroyd and himself were colleagues for years, and despite knowing him to be skeptical and discreet by nature, certainly such blunt confessions lightened surprise in the administrator’s look. But just as he opened his mouth, his employer added with a weary tone :

“But I am starting to think that you didn’t hire him for his fame, not as I suspected. He expresses a formidable loyalty towards your persona, and, beside adding that it is not a common trait in money matters, I am afraid the… battling skills we all witnessed that day was one among other reasons why he is here.”

Edgar’s expression remained unreadable, unnaturally still.

A tense silence passed between them.

“What exactly do you mean, Dr. Ackroyd ? Speak your mind”, were the bitter words he nearly spat.

“You are playing chess with other entities we do not know of, Dr. Swansea, and you are losing the game”, Ackroyd accused slowly with a cold, icy wrath, eyes steady and resentful. “First, you were dragged and beaten, and brought back in a tremendously bad shape by a bloodied colleague. By God, you should have seen his outfit. He had received countless stab wounds and he refused to let anyone near him. And now, we were attacked again in our very sanctuary, doctor. A _heaven_ of peace. You know what I think ? I think _they_ are after you, whoever they are, and Reid is protecting you like a war dog against a vicious militia that doesn’t even spare the staff”, he spoke with increasing anger by the end of his sentence. “I had to take down two of them myself, and Reid nearly sacrificed himself in an attempt to free the Hospital, protecting Dr. Tippets. Now, do not misunderstand me”, he added with a subtle hint of ferocity, “I am not saying that Dr. Reid is the personal keeper of this place, guarding it against your foes. I have heard rumors of his benevolence outside of the building, the tales of patients coming from different districts – no, sir, I’d rather believe he’s not idling at night. He’s being manipulated by you, carrying dubious tasks on your name and endangering himself where his competence could be truly useful here. You are no stranger to the fact that Pembroke is in dire need of fully devoted doctors. And only you, sir, are bringing this hospital down, along your own fall because of some sick game you involved us all.”

“You have no idea— I do not permit you to slander me like that—”

But the shaking voice of the administrator was, again, cut short by a now merciless Ackroyd who promptly rose from his chair.

“You heard my words, Dr. Swansea. This opinion is not isolated, and considering this hospital is already at its worst, forgive me if I do not spare my bluntness. Like the rest of the members, we are doing our best and even more to keep us afloat and are very attached to this place, doctor, not to you. Do not force our hands into picking a side, _colleague,_ for the consequences will be fatal.”

Swansea’s shock seemed to be beyond words, and did not reply anything when Waverley waited a couple seconds more before promptly departing. But he didn’t close the door, and the administrator heard him whisper an apology as Lady Ashbury entered with a concerned look.

The woman’s touch was light and guarded on the newborn’s pale skin. Her eyes methodically inspected the wounds, tracing the edges of the suture points with the tip of her fingers, feeling the dryness of it and pressing some specific points. She sensed his heartbeat beneath, and the regular slow pumping it kept on doing in the absence of the host. Gently drawing back an eyelid, peering into the depths of the ghostly pupil, Elisabeth tried to catch any glimpse of life left in that functioning shell. Nothing.

“It is not often I feel distraught, dear”, she informed with a mastered voice, “but our friend’s health is worrying me at the upmost point.”

A peak of distress pierced through her words, despite her attempts to hide it carefully. The Lady, with infinite tenderness, caressed the newborn’s cheeks with her fingertips, a loving gesture concealed from Swansea’s vision.

“What is it, milady ?”, sighed the latter with despair, watching dreadfully the procedure.

“I cannot say with certainty, but this never happened before. And it shouldn’t.”

“Pardon my bluntness – and my naïve initiative, but… have you tried… mesmerizing him back ?”

She gave him a pained look.

“Believe me, it is futile to grasp his mind ; it is shattered and elusive. I do not think there is much to do, dear friend.”

“Are you—are you declaring him irrecoverable ?”, whispered the short man.

Lady Ashbury sat in the chair Ackroyd had drawn when he came to speak, volunteering to a saddened silence. She did share something with Edgar, despite their numerous differences, and that was implicit understanding – well, what it was at that point at least, before the administrator could gather enough courage to reveal what were the most recent news about the epidemic. Tension drifted through the chilled air of November as the administrator rolled closer to his unconscious friend and seized his cold hand, examining it.

“Would you be kind enough to remind me what plunged Jonathan into this state ?”, the woman softly inquired.

“As I had the occasion to say so before, we do not know.” The defeat was persistent. “He had a green gas sprayed all over him. Its composition hasn’t been determined yet ; we sent samples to the nearest laboratory. And also… there was this stake”, he added while drawing the weapon in question from one of the broad bags hanging on his wheelchair, extending it to her Ladyship, “that crossed important blood vessels above the heart. I would advise care upon handling this.”

She carefully seized it. It was wide and cylindrical, about thirty centimeters long, a sharp edge concluding one side cross shaped. It was sternly decorated, but forged out of some metal the Lady had never seen before : it was both light and heavy, apparently pulsing beneath her hand, like a _live_ material. Her eyes widened just a little ; the body was a stern blue even if it seemed to glow a little at her touch.

Then, the thing burned. The woman promptly got up and let out a surprised cry.

The stake repulsed her so fiercely she had to gather all her strengths to prevent herself from throwing it away with all her might ; instead, Lady Ashbury shoved it into the bed, where it bounced and fell to the ground.

Swansea, startled to witness such a reaction, barely caught the stake and got closer to her Ladyship whose breaths had accelerated. Her hand was trembling.

“What is it ?”, he managed to say with a hurried tone. “Are you hurt ?”

“No, I am not”, she answered, somewhat shocked before collecting her expression, hand held out in a cut motion, promptly recomposing herself in a more dignified position.

A tense silence settled between them as they exchanged a knowing look. Not one of death, but one that underlined bad omens and terrors to come. The woman broke the halt to retrieve a nearby clean shirt, seize the stake anew and wrap the fabric around it, to no effect whatsoever fortunately.

“This is unusual, and a bad sign. I have never seen this, but rest assured, I will lead an investigation on this.”

“Has Priwen developed new armament ?”, asked Edgar.

_That_ had been stuck in Jonathan’s body for more than fifteen minutes. The administrator looked tentatively at the weapon, some kind of morbid curiosity merely shining in his eyes, before apparently deciding against it.

“I cannot say. I will investigate more deeply the matter”, repeated the woman with care. “But this is not good, doctor. This is a sign that the Great Hunt will be deadly and effective, this time.”

The doctor sighed and resumed his seat beside the sleeping figure, showing his trust with the wave of a hand.

“I owe him my life, and much more”, he started softly, his gaze mildly zoning out. His features gave away a heavy sensation, like his heart was sinking in his chest. “Waverley may be right. Jonathan went through the pits of hell to protect London from both the disease and the lurking despair. Partly… because of me.”

He momentarily lifted his tired gaze over the frail room, propping his elbows on the mattress, chin resting on his hands. The green eyes watched from far away the sleeping face of Jonathan. Elizabeth decided wisely not to push on the matter.

“The very existence of us, immortals, blurs the notion of reality and logic”, she spoke with empathy. “He may not wake up from this restless slumber, just as he may do so and destroy the room with the sheer power of his mind. There is no telling, for the boundaries are always being pushed on. Dr. Reid is an example of such a constant feat. We must keep faith, doctor.”

His grasp tightened on the limp hand.

“Milady… I am afraid there are other matters that need to be discussed.”

Various bottles shattered in pieces as they stroke the ground, spilling their content over the floor while making their point in crushing as loud as they could. Or so thought Strickland, whose exhaustion and clumsiness inadvertently knocked them over in the attempt to fill a syringe. Frustrated, the young doctor growled loudly and slammed his hands on the table, probably startling one or two patients around, before tiredly bending his elbows over the surface and sticking the hands to his face instead.

“I’m so tired”, he groaned aloud. “Will this shift never end ?”

Footsteps behind him did not make him budge from his pitiful position. 

“You should probably take an early night, Strickland. You’re publicly making a fool of yourself”, came the flat and neutral voice of Ackroyd.

“Like you care !”, snapped back his colleague, shooting him an angry look. But the other pointedly ignored that.

“Of course I care”, he answered easily, busying himself over the same table near the open side entrance of the hospital, as Thoreau started to clean his mess. “You cannot properly take care of patients in an advanced state of exhaustion. You will more likely jab the mattress instead of their arm at this point.”

The young doctor went to dispose the broken glass in an outside trash, and the cold night air calmed his fretted emotions. He just stood there, empty minded, closing his eyes for a few seconds. He really wasn’t okay – those last days had taken their toll on everyone, and he kept wondering how his other colleagues could keep that calm façade and just not blow up from the pressure. Four days ago, when the unknown militia bursted into the hospital, his face heated up and he threw himself at the first one that _dared to show their face again._ He was no fighter, no sir, but the bandage that nurtured his head was a constant reminder of the humiliation he went under – not a single spared word : just a straight blow to his temple that knocked him instantly. He even had trouble feeling the arms of Ackroyd dragging him away from those bastards. So of course he landed a rightful punch in the man’s eye.

Problem was, his combat skills stopped there. He was no match for trained soldiers, and he ran out of luck right after the hit : the foe had drawn a pistol and aimed at his forehead. Right there, he swore he never got so scared in his life.

That was when Ackroyd emerged from behind him and, with a precise blow, disarmed the man whose gun shot in the air ; Strickland did not remember the screaming patients, but he did visioned the formidable fight his colleague put up with the uniform stranger, dodging and striking like a master in closed combat while he himself was knocked on his arse. He witnessed the merciless counterattacks and the deflection moves, the impassible face of Waverley true to his army experience. And when the second partner in crime had shown up, the lack of hesitation when he used the first one as a human shield to avoid three bullets in a row, shoving it to destabilize the gunner and the countless blows he delivered until his enemy went limp.

When he turned to Strickland, his blouse, his waistcoat and hand knuckles were covered in blood, and yet he hadn’t receive _any damned strike_. His eyes were unreadable as he ordered with a dead calm :

“Dr. Strickland, get Dr. Reid. In his office. _Now_.”

He had little hesitation to execute himself, refusing to fully process what he just witnessed ; and the young doctor was just sprinting across the hallway when he heard glass shatter and Hawkins yell. No need to climb the stairs, apparently : as he stopped right before the reception hall, Reid had ran _on_ the counter and literally jumped on the stunned soldier, feet flat on the man’s upper part of the chest before landing on the ground. Strickland’s medical side told him the names of at least ten bones that cracked loudly under the doctor’s weight.

And that moment, at that exact very moment, after Jonathan performed a perfect roll, the eyes that snapped to him froze him to the bone. Pools of anger lingered in those two icy circles, pools of pure madness and determination. Those eyes, for a fraction of seconds, were not human.

Thoreau shivered as he recalled the memory.

“Out for a night stroll it is, then ?”

“Leave me be, Ackroyd”, he answered exasperated, not bothering to open his eyes. He heard his colleague stop beside him.

“It’s not like you would ever take any advice of mine. Hand over the chart.”

At that, Strickland shot an incredulous glance at his perfectly calm colleague and saw red.

“Excuse me ?”

“Hand over the chart”, he repeated, arm extended casually. “I will take care of your cases for the night. A doctor that cannot tend to his patients is a useless doctor.”

“Why is it”, the other started furiously, “that every single time you notice any little thing that doesn’t go on your way, you feel free to comment and degrade like a king amongst his subjects ? Well, Dr. Ackroyd, I can assure you I am perfectly fine ! AND fully operational to do my job. I do not need your help in any case, thank you very much !”

As he nearly yelled at the end of his sentence, he left the spot with red cheeks and, somehow, a sinking stomach. He very much needed a night off. But there is no way he was going to let Ackroyd the satisfaction of having him admit the task’s too difficult to manage ; even without sneering, the man knew how to get on his nerves.

Later that night and early morning, when the shift ended, Thoreau could hardly still consider himself human : he showed great bags under his eyes, which were reddened ; his legs threatened to give up at any given time, and he desperately needed to go back home. Things were harder without Swansea or Reid to contribute to their part. He carelessly threw his blouse across his desk upstairs after he finished two reports he forgot to scribble that night, took his briefcase and shook his head at Dr. Tippets who looked like a walking corpse just entering the office. All the tired faces he collected from the staff while he passed the building worried him ; how long could they endure until one of them actually pass out of tiredness ? They had way less patients since the hospital got attacked as they fled the place afterwards, but the number was still ridiculously high and with only three doctors out of five, it was near impossible not to be crushed by pressure.

He closed the door of his apartment with a heavy thud as daylight was starting to arise outside, back propped against the frame. At this point his mind had imagined a thousand ways to quit, but Thoreau knew he was needed and that he couldn’t live with the fact that he gave up on his colleagues. He let fall the briefcase on the floor and went to directly change his clothes into something more comfortable ; then, washing his teeth, his tired hazel eyes bored into his reflection : his hair was still somehow neatly combed, the round glasses that framed his nicely shaped features could not hide the worn out expression he was bearing however. As he finished his cleaning routine something rubbed his leg and started playing with the strings of his shoes ; Thoreau bended to greet his cat.

“Hello, Jeffrey. Spent a nice day, fellow ?”, he said with affection as he stroke the dark fur of his tiny roommate, proceeding to gently pick him up and give him a kiss on his teeny tiny forehead, which he accepted gratefully as he rubbed his mustache over the untidy beard Thoreau did not bother to shave recently.

Thoreau carried Jeffrey across the flat as he went to fetch some leftovers for a quick dinner, only to have his stomach dangerously rumble at the food with a repelled sensation ; the young doctor did not feel like eating at all, he had to admit. Everything looked disgusting lately ; talk about a crappy situation. Simply over-exhausted as he was, and not fancying the nasty taste that started to bloom in his mouth – a solid indicator of well-needed sleep –, he just threw himself in the bed along with the purring machine that loved to be held, barely remembering to put away his glasses before promptly relaxing into a deep slumber.

_The gun shot twice as he filched away from the man. Both bullets reached him, two predatory mouths that gaped holes through his flesh and spilled blood like warm water. But the pain did not come ; the expectation that it would, eventually, at any time was more dreadful than the pain itself. Ackroyd intervened, fistfighted his opponent and seized the gun to empty the charger in the foe’s body. Thoreau bursted into tears, managing to see the contempt that sculpted his colleague’s face, the tall figure looming over him from above. He felt so small compared to the man. As if sensing the weakness, his colleague metamorphosed into his sister ; she grabbed him by the collar and, with an inhumane strength, lifted him up like he was made of feathers. He was choking, choking on his own disgrace, bracing himself to hear how much the thin woman despised him and how much of a failure he was. He felt dizzy._

_A featherlight touch gently caressed his shoulder, and then the world shuffled under his feet. The dark background became white, his tormentor faded, and a quiet peace invaded his mind._

_Thoreau’s mind simply drifted._

_As the helping hand made the demand to turn around, he visualized his own shoulder as he looked over it to gaze into the reassuring eyes of Jonathan Reid. The renowned surgeon’s fingers tenderly traced the edges of Thoreau’s face, and it felt nice… Warm. With every soothing move the knots in his shoulders disappeared, replaced by a whole feeling of comfort and relax. Jonathan smiled, and when the neat hand passed over the doctor’s forehead, Thoreau lost all rationality. They both were now in his office, the grey coating of his walls, the tall windows that viewed outward and the messy environment._

_Strickland never went to his office before, and yet every detail sank into his blank mind. As the surgeon turned around, his younger colleague automatically followed his track and both men approached the analysis instrumentation at the furthest point of the place. A perfectioned arrangement of the current distilling models, with sheets darkened with hurried notes scattered across the nearby surfaces. Jonathan took one in particular, and tried to speak to him ; but Thoreau was too much lost in sensation to understand anything at all. He couldn’t do much beside looking at the lips moving soundlessly, but the words printed before his eyes as if the man just shouted them in his ears. Looking down at the one particular sheet Reid was stretching out for him to view, he only could see the general structure of the text. But he knew what do to. The knowledge was deeply implanting its root in his mind waiting to be scribbled upon. As he looked up, the last shape he saw was the one of a dying plant._

Thoreau woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think that this sort of cat doesn't exist, know that Jeffrey is in every way my pet. Yes, I seem to have adopted a semi-dog instead of regular feline ; yet I consider myself the luckiest and happiest owner in the world.
> 
> Intro's over, time for our boy to shine.


	5. Routine

“Say, does Reid have a plant in his office ?”, idly asked the young doctor across the office shared by the three doctors, writing something down another page. Ackroyd, his own desk pushed against Thoreau’s, was the first one to glance up from his book while sipping a cup of tea.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Why ?”

“Because, if it was the case, someone should take care of it in his absence before it withers”, he answered distractively, keeping on drafting what seemed to be an endless list from Waverley’s point of view.

“That is the lamest excuse you could come up with to put your nose where it doesn’t belong”, the other quarreled with a bored tone.

“I heard he had one indeed”, answered Tippets this time, his desk separated from them and surrounded by the overcrowded shelves, the tables around supporting various medical materials. “Edgar mentioned he brought a withering plant back to life. It would be a kind gesture not to let his efforts go to waste”, he added with approbation, the old man buried under tons of paperwork.

“Hmh”, hummed Thoreau. “How is he faring anyway ? Any improvement so far ?”

“Not a single change, both physically and mentally”, informed Ackroyd with a hint of frustration. “His vital are stable, but the wounds aren’t closing properly. Aren’t closing at all, in fact. They are in the exact same state they were when he left the OR.”

Strickland cocked an eyebrow, a bit startled. “Five days have passed, and you’re telling me the wounds aren’t healing neither rotting ?”

“Believe me, it is hard for us too”, exhaled Corcoran, letting his pen fall and folding his arms over his chest, gaze distant. “That has only been witnessed in advanced states of vegetation. Unfortunately there is not much we can do in cases like that.”

“His pupils are still reactive, his breathing is regular and so is his heart rate. His unconscious mechanisms are well oiled, so the gas must have affected only small areas in the brain, assuming it is the substance that placed him in that state in first place”, Waverley rationalized for what must be the third time in five days. “But which ones ? To what extend ?”, he then muted with frustration.

From then, Waverley and Corcoran discussed the possibilities all over again across the office, both implicitly agreeing on finding a cure to their fallen colleague even if it meant repeating the same information until something clicked. Thoreau would have gladly participated in the debate, but something told him his ideas would be tossed away as soon as they would cross his lips. The drawback of being the youngest, he supposed.

Again, Thoreau mulled over the strange dream he woke from that very evening. He felt well rested, despite the lightheaded feeling he first sensed. With his cat curled up in his armpit, whole _sentences_ kept playing on repeat, words he read or heard in his sleep that the mysterious instance of Jonathan tried to say. It was only a dream, he knew that, but it felt immensely real, frighteningly so. His body had been ethereal, a perfectible transcription of reality, but the details were unbearably realistic. He never entered Reid’s office, and as he had tried to shake the idea of peering through the door to check the accuracy of his dream, an epic apprehension lurked somewhere around his stomach.

In fact, the pages he had written down since he crossed the hospital threshold only contained the words that couldn’t stop spinning like some sort of bug. As he had written the last one he could remember, he noted those were entirely chemical drugs or substances. He wasn’t sure he respected the order, but without further experimental protocol, he couldn’t do much with it. His brows furrowed as he scolded himself : he was not going to do anything with it anyway, because he just _dreamt_ the components.

“Lost your inspiration, dear colleague ?”, seemed to sneer Ackroyd while quietly observing him. Mulling over, Strickland did not notice the two doctors had stopped talking and even that Tippets had left the room. The young doctor did not like the intensity of his stare, like he _knew_ what was going on inside his head.

“Isn’t your shift about to start, Dr. Ackroyd ?”, replied smartly the young doctor instead, in a futile attempt to avoid explaining himself, only earning a grimace from his colleague.

“How surprising. Following the steps of our local star. The moment you start to avoid topics is the moment you start to hide things, I’ve always thought”, he eluded, the accusation stiff in the air as he put on his blouse and collected his chart.

He did not respond as Ackroyd departed. In any case, his shift was about to start as well, so he prepared himself to tend to his patients.

As Thoreau shared kind words and a comprehensive behavior while working, he administered medication, rubbed irritated skins, dressed diagnoses and told bad news whenever he had to, always sparingly. He knew how harsh the reality could get to be, and what reassurance gentle words could provide efficiently. The young doctor, always the sensitive boy who had sworn to end the misery in this world, had learnt to manage both. And, as the shift went on, he progressively forgot about that strange dream, forgot the paper he has plastered all his thoughts on ; the idea of any possible realistic outcome become more and more ridiculous, until he definitely dismissed the uneasy bug it had left on him.

“Good evening, Nurse Hawkins”, he greeted her in the entrance hall. “How are you tonight ?”

“Good evening Dr. Strickland. Shifts are longer than ever, but I’m holding on pretty tightly. You ?”, she answered with a large but tired smile, chocolate eyes slightly shining.

“Barely surviving”, he joked with a light smile, “but here we are. Tell me, we’re short on antiseptic supplies. Any chance the supplier gave notice of his activity ?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard from him in a week, doctor”, she informed him with a wince. “Dr. Swansea tried to reach him two days ago, without success. Seeing the doctor’s current state and the instability of the roads from here all the way to the West End, we have no means of checking on our products.”

“But—we can’t just leave it there, Nurse, we are in dire need of those antiseptics. What are the other solutions ?”

“Well, the other possible suppliers are overbooked or either closed due to the sanitary situation. However, I have heard of a dispensary in Whitechapel, but it is said to be very secretive.”

Thoreau dismissed the possibility immediately.

“We cannot afford to rely on dubious distributors. The hospital is not ready to take another blow, would it have to happen.” He then sighed. “I’ll ask Dr. Swansea to find some errand boy who could make all the travel to the West End. Anything I should be aware of, Nurse ?”

“Nothing relevant, doctor. Dr. Swansea is either in his room or in Dr. Reid’s.”

Bowing a little in a goodbye gesture, all his patients treated so far, he had a few minutes ahead of him ; he decided to knock lightly on the administrator’s door, waiting for a response ; when he heard none, he directly opened Reid’s room, whose curtains were always drawn on the command of Swansea.

As he entered, he glanced first at the sleepy features of his elder colleague, the one he admired so much. There was nothing left of the pain that twisted his face a few days ago after the fight, yet the view shook him a little. The mighty Dr. Reid, always so kind, polite and perceptive, was lying pretty much vulnerable on the bed. The one that visited him in the night was just as relaxed as he was now, which made him realize how much Jonathan would always be a little tense around everyone.

Then, he looked sideways and found Dr. Swansea asleep in his wheelchair. The man’s health had improved a lot since his operation, more than a week ago, as he regained enough strength to resume his administrative tasks and walk around on his own. But right there, in that awkward position, he was going to hurt himself more than anything. Not good for the stitches.

But as he went to reach him, the door cracked with a pitch sound and startle awake the administrator, who looked momentarily confused as his eyes went over him. He himself being often subjected to nightmares, he wondered what horrors were still vivid in the poor man, who relaxed upon recognition.

“Ah, Dr. Strickland. How good to see you”, he saluted, straightening his position while wincing painfully.

“Good evening, doctor. That was a fairly bad move, to fall asleep on a chair after surgery no less. What are you doing here, if I may ?”

“I assist your colleagues into watching our dearest doctor at night. I merely wait for him to recover and wake up, that is all.”

“As honorable it can be, you of us all know resting is important for a proper recovery. May I bring you back to your room, sir ?”, he politely asked, tilting his head aside. Swansea was old enough to follow a wise suggestion when it happened, and Thoreau wasn’t really asking anyway. Exhaling quietly, he nodded as the employee seized the wheelchair’s back handles and drove the man out of the room, to his own bed.

“Pardon my stubbornness, doctor”, he started as he helped the frail man climb out of the seat, “but now that you are awake, I am afraid there are urgent matters that needn’t wait.”

“Speak up”, he growled as he laid down painfully, “I am listening.”

“We’re running short on multiple medical supplies, most of all antiseptics, and the supplier is not giving any signs of being alive.”

“Right, I remember. Unfortunately, I have tried to reach any possible convoy to personally retrieve our needed purchase, but they are all booked or retired for the time being. I forgot to mention this to Nurse Hawkins, I think.”

A silence passed between them.

“So…?”, prompted Strickland with a low voice. “What happens now ?”

“I am afraid someone has to go retrieve themselves the batches of products”, Swansea answered with a grimace, hesitant looking. “I would have gladly go myself, but it is clear that I’m in no condition whatsoever to run a far-fetched errand at the present moment.”

“Oh, I’ll go”, Strickland heard him say without thinking.

Swansea raised his eyebrows in a surprised mimic.

“Really ? Well – that would be generous of you, Dr. Strickland, but I am afraid you are currently taken by your tasks already –”

“I’ll go after my daylight shifts, of course”, he then proposed, and some part of him just told him to shut up and back off already ; but he couldn’t, as the hospital really needed all of those supplies. “Can I borrow the ambulance to drive until there ? I don’t think I’ll be able to carry all the boxes.”

“Of course”, came the joyful answer. “Check with Milton when you wish to depart. Here is the address”, he said as he took a nearby paper and started writing on it with a jittery scribbling. “Make sure to recall the bill has to be addressed to Pembroke Hospital. I’ll kindly ask you to report once you manage to retrieve everything”, he concluded with a wide grin.

“I will, doctor. Good night”, Thoreau saw off as he closed the door, paper in hand.

Why on earth did he have to propose himself ? Every time. He did that every time. It won’t please his sleep schedule just as Milton’s going to throw himself at his throat.

Sighing dully, he walked back to attend his patients and get over with the night shift.

_Thoreau was looking at himself in the mirror. A neutral Doppelganger that bore his eyes into his, a stranger that knew everything about him by heart. The coldness that clouded his look chilled him a little. He was not like this, was he ?_

_A sudden touch made him turn his head around, only to see the glowing face of Jonathan again ; the sight made his thinking slow and dull, and once again his senses started to drift away as he fell into a compliant peace. He tried to gather a clear mind, but as soon as the figure’s light touch stroke his forehead, he let his defenses fall and_ _dive into warm waters. Feeling like he was about to lose his consciousness to Morpheus._

_He inadvertently followed Reid as the latter crossed his office to his chemistry kit. The man’s lips started to move, muttering soundless words that he could not understand. Papers where disposed in a semi-circle on the floor to his left, Thoreau’s eyes blankly viewed. When had he turned his head ? He felt like something was wrong, but Jonathan’s hand levelled his gaze to his and the doctor lost his thoughts when their eyes met. A paper was shoved into his hands, and he recognized the patterns of the text on it. He could not read. But the answer was on that sheet._

_The plant, as he noticed from the corner of his eye, had withered a little more._

“I should have imagined”, Strickland demurred while he take a good look at the shop in front of him. The entry shelves had been wiped out and the whole façade structure crumbled under the pressure of what seemed to have been a bomb. Shards of glass covered the floor nearby, numerous strings and cables dangled over the inner entrance and the wooden beams were cracked and disposed in hazardous angles.

There wasn’t a shop anymore.

Great. He couldn’t even risk to cross the obstacles, for everything would fall on his head for sure. So that left him with no supplies at all and it was simply not acceptable. He glanced around, observing the disastrous shambles the whole district was made of : trash scattered all over the place, where rats and other living ecosystems proliferated and intoxicated the air with an acrid stench. Boxes, furniture, one or two corpses, papers, cardboards and every sort of disposable and handy element was seemingly resting outside for a purpose that escaped his mind.

What other possibilities did he have ? There was little to do, and the other choices were to import the supplies from outside ; that somehow didn’t seem realistic given the poor financial state of the Pembroke. So, after fighting his apprehension, his feet finally agreed to hit the road to Whitechapel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this fanfic is meant to be slow. Action will come with time - a regular doctor isn't meant to lead fights every now and then, right ? But do not worry, I have great plans for Thoreau and his team.


	6. Outer world

The walk was tedious and he was well aware he needed to be cautious. Criminality rate had incredibly raised those past few months – well, the shop itself was living proof that it was a tad foolish to wander the streets alone. His clothing wasn’t rich, but neither shabby – he forgot he still carrying the stethoscope, and even if he didn’t have much on him Thoreau made a point in keeping his distances from everyone. At least, it was daylight.

He suppressed a tired yawn once he crossed the main place of Whitechapel, watching the high church rise from another poor-looking district. The air was filled with pollution, intoxicating his lungs, but somehow it matched the overall appearance pretty well. He always liked Christian relics and cantos that praised the Lord for his goodness, as well as he treasured the views of spiky and masterfully carved walls, immense doors guarding the entry from demons and other biblical creatures ; the smell inside religious building evoked the gleeful and special moments his family spent with him. Evoked the prayers, the gentle words fleeing from the believers, as the young boy he was admiring, mesmerized, the statues and the beautiful stained glass. The persistent scent of melting candles, and the welcoming warmth sheltering from the icy bite in winter.

There were a few people outside, a priest in particular that was babbling about the apocalypse rushing down this earth to punish everybody for their sins. Well, as much as he doubted it, this dreadful influenza sure was something unusual.

His discrete contemplation was cut short by a rough authoritarian voice charging from behind him.

“Hey, you ! You think this is some touristic town you can lounge around ? Who the fuck are you ?”

Nervousness crushed his throat as Strickland turned around ; immediately retracing his steps to plan an evasion should it be necessary, he faced a broad-shouldered giant wearing some sort of a beret and a grey tight jacket, the face being one of a constricted bulldog. His enormous hands were curled in tight fists as he approached, and if his goal was to terrorize the freshly arrived tourist, he achieved it with success.

Because Strickland had frankly no idea what to do in cases of direct encounter with troublemakers and criminals.

Curiously though, when Thoreau had turned completely his body to him and took a few steps back, the mastiff’s look dropped to his collarbone – to his stethoscope – and he lost part of his bully attitude.

“Oh, you’re a doc”, he stated simply. “Did you come here in the name of that bastard, Reid ?”

“Oh—well, no, in fact. But I am his colleague”, Thoreau informed, hardly swallowing.

“Ah. What the fuck’s he doing anyway ? It’s been a few nights he doesn’t show his damned arse around these streets. And to think I believed he was truly dedicated”, he rudely spat on the ground, that tightened air slowly coming back to his features.

“He is currently indisposed, unfortunately”, Strickland replied, more calmly than before. “The hospital underwent an attack and he got badly injured. He’s in coma”, he concluded, attentive to the response he was going to get.

And he was not disappointed, as he watched the hard stoned expression distort in astound.

“What ? Attacking a hospital. What scum roams these lands doctor, I often wonder. So what about Reid ?”

“He’s in coma”, he repeated. “I mean, he’s been unconscious for six days now and it’s not likely he’s going to wake up any soon.”

To say it aloud pained him a bit more than he expected. The man huffed.

“Poor bastard. And yet he seemed to be a fighter alright”, he declared with lightness. “Who’ll take care of Whitechapel now that our good doctor won’t give away his medicine ? That shitty excuse for a shopkeeper’s gonna be damned happy for it. But don’t worry”, the man bent forward, like sharing some sort of confidence, “he’s not gonna have much to be happy about once I’ll take back the cash that’s mine.”

“Hmh”, acknowledged the doctor, feeling a bit saddened about the seller. “So you say Dr. Reid gives away his medicine ? To whom ?”

“To everybody who needs it, of course”, he loudly responded, brows furrowing. “He’s damn good at knowing which drug is effective, that is. I never had to complain from a wrong treatment, specially went it comes to my son, Harry. My guy’s fragile, but he kept a good health with the regular medicine Reid gave him. Now, who’ll take care of him ?”

And he looked at Strickland expectantly.

“Fair question, sir. Dr. Reid was free to wander during his shifts, but he is the only doctor so far to be allowed such a freedom. My colleagues and I are entitled to the Pembroke Hospital. I am sorry.”

“Then what are you doing here, doctor ?”

“I was looking for a dispensary. I heard there was one around, and I came to talk with the dealer.”

“Well, it’s a shame Reid’s… _undisposed_ , doctor. He was often heading there at night, he could’ve pointed you the direction.”

Thoreau missed a beat.

“He knows about the dispensary ?”

The big man eyed him suspiciously.

“You sure you are his mate ? You seem pretty bad informed about him”, he accused with warning tones.

“Dr. Reid is a very private man”, he apologized. “He is always very busy outside of the hospital and doesn’t often speak of his activities.”

“Mmh.” The man scratched his chin. “Well, in any case, if you’re looking for information go talk to that damned journalist who’s always flirting with the hooker, just around the cathedral. Look for a black man in blue costume.”

He dismissed him with a wave of a hand, vaguely gesturing the place to go, and as Strickland thanked the man, he headed towards the side stairs. So, Jonathan was dealing with an underhand business, in a poor district and without apparent reason. Thoreau feared those gambling accords because he had witnessed crossfires between gangs due to suburban deals, more precisely the consequences of such encounters. Even though he was lucky himself that Reid made himself popular after that bloke, otherwise things could have very likely ended differently.

Was that the reason the Hospital got attacked ? Because Reid somehow messed an engagement or… anything else, and they decided to take their revenge ? The doctor shook his head. Reid wasn’t that sort of person, of course he wasn’t.

A little while after declining the invitation of a prostitute, he looked around and finally spotted the man, prying through a window. How rude could that be ? Definitely, the journalists knew when to be ferocious.

“Good afternoon, sir”, Thoreau greeted with a forced neutrality, startling the man in a strange seaside blue costume as he secretly wished. His glasses sheltered the smart and attentive eyes that laid on Strickland. “Are you… a journalist ?”

“Yes, I am. Clayton Darby, at your service. Who are you ?”, replied politely the other man.

“I’m Dr. Thoreau Strickland, from the Pembroke Hospital.”

“Ah, another doctor from Pembroke ?”, Darby added instantly, eyes glowing up. “This is starting to be interesting. What can I do for you, doctor ?”

“I heard there was a dispensary around, and someone told me you would be able to help me find it. Could you point me towards the direction ?”

But at that, the journalist’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly ; Thoreau only noticed because he was observing the reddish accentuated color the man’s sclera showed, an avant-gardist sign of fever.

“Sorry, I can’t say”, he said with a flat tone. “I’m investigating the zone but I didn’t find out anything about it yet.”

The young doctor was slightly taken aback.

“But… You know Dr. Reid, right ?”

“Yes, I do. A fine man, that cares about the people around this left-for-dead district where all the other doctors are hiding behind their impossible medical fees for a simple headache treatment”, he suddenly bit back ; Thoreau did not expect the bluntness. “Where is he, anyway ?”

“He’s indisposed at the moment. I am only trying to follow his steps.”

“What do you mean, indisposed ?”

Were the people usually this incredibly curious, or was it just them ?

“The hospital suffered an attack a few days ago, and Dr. Reid was one to be hurt. He’s recovering.”

“Do you come in his name, then ?”

“No”, came his drawn response, “I am here because we are running short on medical supplies and every dispenser was either burgled or shut down around. The dispensary’s our only option.”

“So you’re telling me, doctor”, accused fiercely the journalist with an heavy tone, “that the Pembroke financial situation has gotten so bad the _staff itself_ is obligated to retrieve their own the medicine here, in Whitechapel, without even knowing where to go ? Seems highly incoherent, wouldn’t you think ?”

“Well, not exactly—“, he tried to reply, “I volunteered, as the situation was urgent—”

“More urgent than all the patients affected with influenza, that are probably outnumbering you with dozens ? You seem to have plenty of free time for a Pembroke doctor, sir.”

That last sentence drooled with suspicion – about what, Thoreau couldn’t say. However that was the plain truth, what could he add more ? He wasn’t going to open up his whole life to prove he was just here for medical supplies.

“Look”, he said as trying the appease the tension between them, “I am only here for extra drugs, Mr. Darby, as some of my patients risk to be put in danger without them. You would have noticed the shops around are all closed if you did investigate other districts in London instead of prying into people’s private business,” Strickland stroke back, gesturing at the window next to them to no effect whatsoever. Realizing that wasn’t going to help even a bit, he pleaded. “Please.”

But it became evident the journalist had already forged a strong opinion about Thoreau as he cut short the conversation.

“As I said earlier, doctor, I do not know anything about the place. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have personal matters to attend to.”

And he brushed his shoulder as he passed by him to go down the stairs. Thoreau rolled his eyes _. Journalists._ Obviously the man had some knowledge he was keeping from him, surprisingly so though : at first he seemed to be at ease with doctors, but then he got mistaken for somebody else.

Definitely, Dr. Reid knew how to leave his mark on citizens, as they were fiercely protecting him. No wonder why : he was a generous soul helping others. Darby was quite a man who seemed to dislike the powerful taking advantage of the poor ; Thoreau, as an institutional practitioner, never charged medicine on his own name, but private doctors did that very often and were quite scrupulous about who to heal and who to extort shamelessly. To be mistaken for one of them, even if the outcome would have been different did they take the time to know each other, frustrated him.

Darby wouldn’t have protected a suspicious doctor, playing sick games around districts. He just proved him by shoving him aside.

Sighing, but a least a bit more relieved, he decided to just continue his path ; eventually he’ll get across someone who would gladly answer his questions. However, the afternoon was soon going to reach its end and he definitely didn’t want to come back to the Hospital at night, let alone missing his shift completely.

That was when he passed in front of a flower shop. The little rose plants, blossoming and gently potted, attracted his attention, and his mind wandered around that hypothetical plant in Reid’s office. The memories were blurry, and shapes and colors were mixing ; perhaps his mentor purchased it here ? They were all tremendously pretty and delicate. Maybe he could find here some sort of watering can to nourish Jonathan’s plant. He crouched to get closer and sniff their petals : they smelled of fresh air and green grass, despite the ambient rotten air. He loved those, one of the last touches of vivid life in the 20th century.

Only then, he noticed the owner of the shop, a flower girl dressed in cheap clothes that managed to bring color and elegance to her figure, quietly watching him. He promptly got up and excused his behavior.

“My apologies, milady. Those flowers looked precious and I couldn’t resist”, he said, bowing a little to underline his words. The young woman just kept staring with something quite indescribable in her eyes, no sound crossing her lips. Strickland looked around to check that she was indeed watching him, and she was so mutedly ; he shifted uncomfortably under the wordless scrutiny. “Well, please forgive my behavior. Have a nice—day…?”, his sentence finished with a rising pitch as she suddenly got closer and gently grabbed him by the arm, in a sweet embrace, as she rose her intense eyes to him.

At this point, he himself lost his words.

Then, without any other word, she proceeded to pull his by the arm, urging him to accompany her.

“Milady, I believe I am confused—”

The way she insisted with some sort of an old look, like _she had to bring him with her for his own good_ , made him cede and suddenly he was smoothly dragged by the lovely lady back to the way from where he came, and crossed the place where he talked to what he assumed was the local bully. They engaged in the stairs near the shop. Thoreau did not get exactly what the point of this walk was, but one thing for sure : he didn’t like all the looks he was attracting.

“Where are you taking me ?”, he asked nervously, glancing around. As she was not answering any of his pleads : “Can you talk ?”

Finally, a few steps after, the mute woman stopped in front of a door and knocked lightly. Thoreau, fighting his nervousness, glanced aside and saw a man lurking in a shadow, a thin silhouette prostrated against a rail and wearing a melon hat. Blood started flowing rapidly through his veins as he could not decern any more details. Was he just getting ambushed ? Did she just bring him _willingly_ in this dark corner like some fresh meal for… whoever was there ?

“Yes ?”, came an unpleasant voice from the door, startling the doctor who looked at the leaning grey figure behind the doorframe ; the old man stared back, waiting. But when Strickland went to question the mysterious shopkeeper… he stayed agape as noticing that she was not by his side anymore.

He had been distracted by the figure on his left, and did not feel her leave. What—What was he supposed to do now ?!

“What is it that you want ?”, the old man grew impatient as Thoreau hadn’t answered yet.

“Umh—Good afternoon, sir. I—I, uh…”, he stuttered, glancing around. Oh, hell. What else what he meant to say ? “I am looking for a dispensary that should be around here. I need… I am in need of a trade.”

The grey beard eyed him suspiciously.

“Sorry sir, there is no dispensary here”, he concluded with a strong Romanian accent, already closing the door.

Thoreau took his chance.

“I come in the name of Dr. Jonathan Reid, sir”, he almost pleaded, a hand on the door to prevent it from closing. “He’s badly ill and he requires the help of the dispenser.”

At that, the man nearly hidden behind the door widely opened it, with a worried look on his face.

“Why not say so sooner, sir ? Is Dr. Reid okay ? Please, come in”, he invited him and stepping aside to let the newcomer insider. Damn it, Jonathan Reid, when did your name become a key to pry open foreign doors he’d never walked past ? Was there anyone at all in the district that literally did not know his name ? _The man_.

Thoreau entered what he would define as a warm and cozy place : there were newspapers all around and the fireplace held wondrous crackling flames that heated greatly the place. He liked the old man’s taste, reminded him of an intellectual.

“And who would you be, sir ?”, asked the not-so-frail-man-for-his-age.

“Dr. Strickland, from the Pembroke Hospital.”

“Mmh. I am Darius Petrescu, a pleasure. Now, what happened to our doctor ?”

“He was attacked in the hospital when some militia harassed the place. I came in the hope to gather some supplies as we are dearly running out of them.”

“We don’t have much, Dr. Strickland, Dr. Reid should have told you so”, he mused a little. “But I am not in charge here. Cross the yard and enter the other building. She will be upstairs.”

_She ?,_ thought Strickland while he did as indicated, prying the door open only to be attacked by a consistent scent of sickness. Pretty much like the hospital, but the stench was a mixture between breathed diseases and the copper oxidating in the thin walls of the building. As he closed the door, his view embraced a dozen of beds aligned against the stone, all of them occupied by patients that looked at him with weary and glowing eyes, a look he was well accustomed to. The place was vast and overly clean ; he leaned over various sick people, and every physical injure he could perceive had been treated by a professional hand. A woman was running the place then, but where were the doctors ? Any nurses around ? There were so many of them, and seeing them practically left alone by the local staff pained him a little. Problems were the same whatever the medical building. He walked through the wide space, quietly inspecting everything from afar. This dispensary may be secret, and definitely not official ; an illegal establishment, then ? But whose wealthy hand deliberately chose to open some sort of a small clinic in a poor district as Whitechapel that would not bring him any money ? He reckoned the people around here could hardly get charged for any medical fees.

He climbed the stairs as he heard voices from above. He made as little noise as possible, getting closer to a nurse he was seeing on the back of the room, herself treating a patient seated on a mattress that had obviously seen better days. He did not recognize the language they were speaking. The uniform she wore looked pretty much like the nurses’ equipment from Pembroke – well, in fact… It WAS the Pembroke nurses’ uniform. A wide smile, painted with a strange joy and surprise, twisted the young doctor’s features upon recognition of the intonations of her voice.

“I hardly believe my eyes”, Thoreau said aloud as he got closer to the lighted area, allowing the two people who turned around to see him. “Nurse Crane ?”

Dorothy seemed to miss a beat, eyes bewildered until she recognized him too.

“Dr. Strickland !”, she exclaimed back, returning the smile. “How surprising to see you here. Give me a few more seconds, so I can get through with this patient.”

He politely waited next to the windows as she gave him her last words. Dorothy Crane and himself were not exactly close, but they matched in the feelings of being the youngest in their own department, him being thirty-three and Dorothy twenty-seven. He had always admired the nurses’ work, for, without any of her, the hospital would have fallen long ago ; and even when Nurse Crane resigned without further notice and without even coming back to the hospital, it took its toll on the staff who had to make more rounds in an attempt to complete the amazing work she managed to do only by herself. Besides, he had the opportunity to perform a surgery with her, and her skills, her self-control and her professionalism made her a reliable medical member. Besides, despite her strong spirit of health professional, she was a fine chatter-box during her pauses and knew when to offer mundane conversation.

“So, Dr. Strickland”, she resumed after dismissing the wounded man, “I must say I am pleased to see you. How have you been, doctor ?”

“I have been doing fine, as best as I could”, he stated with a grin. “What about you ? I thought you retired from the Pembroke hospital because of the pressure of the medical world.”

“Never, doctor”, she replied, a slight vexation in her voice. “I can handle the pressure better than some of your male colleagues. I thought you knew.”

“Yes, indeed it seemed quite bizarre coming from you”, he rushed to say, “but that was the only explanation Dr. Swansea gave us about your sudden departure.” Her lips curled in that displeased mimic she often did when she did not like something. “What is it you do, exactly, Nurse Crane ? Is this place the reason you left ?”

“Partly, doctor”, she answered a bit evasively. “But I have several question : why are you here in first place ?”

He braced himself to give the bad news.

“You are not going to like what I am about to say, Nurse. The hospital got attacked, and I must confess the situation hasn’t gone well ever since. Dr. Reid has been injured and he is currently in a coma.”

Where Thoreau expected an astonished reaction, he only saw sadness and worry.

“Let me guess : some sort of militia, wearing blue uniforms and grey coats, shooting arrows and bullets alike ?”

He was the one who remained agape.

“Ye—Yes, how—”

“The dispensary got attacked as well once, by that very entity. To this day, I am still unable to say who they were.”

“…And how did you get rid of them ? Was anyone hurt ?”

“They slaughtered most of my patients, that day”, she blurted out, her voice cracking a little at the remembrance. Strickland became pale. “Was Dr. Reid the only victim ?”

“Yes—Yes. Christ. A slaughter. We were very lucky to count on Dr. Reid and Dr. Ackroyd.”

“Please, tell me everything.”

And Thoreau did so. He told how, a couple days before the great launch, Dr. Swansea was kidnapped, beaten and brought up by Reid pretty much hurt himself, even if he still performed a miraculous intervention that saved Swansea’s life by an inch. How himself encased a hit and how he threw himself at the guard’s throat two days after that, only to be saved by Dr. Ackroyd and his fantastic fighting style. How Jonathan got stabbed and gauzed multiple times, the well-timed saving of Clay Cox and the surgery performed by the three doctors on Reid. How disastrous were the damage and delicate the surgery, and how he did not wake up ever since.

Dorothy listened to his full speech for over five minutes without interruption. He wondered if she saw in his eyes the ghosts that sometimes haunted him at night and the hollow feeling that followed afterwards, but her silence was her only answer as compassion and horror both danced in her attentive look.

By the end of his talk, Thoreau had sunk into a deep silence that he did not notice until the Nurse spoke softly :

“You have every right not to feel okay, Dr. Strickland. What you all have been through is monstrous and I cannot imagine how shaken you must be. Above all, you need to care for patients that do not stop coming.”

The doctor shot her a pained smile.

“Thank you. For understanding. And please ; as we’re not colleagues anymore, call me Thoreau.”

That, somehow, sparkled a laughter out of some irony he didn’t quite get.

“Very well, only if you agree to call me Dorothy.”

“Agreed, Dorothy. So you didn’t quite answered my question : how did you get rid of them ? How come they did not come back if they were here for you ?”

“Well, just before that, what do you know about Dr. Reid ? About his link to this place ?”

It was not exactly like her to deflect questions this often, as she tended to speak with frankness. Always straight to the point. He halted to think anyway.

“Not much. Only that he has a deal with the local dispenser, which is yourself, as I gathered this far.”

“Mmh. Well, if you must know, Dr. Reid was here as well the night they attacked. And, just as you could have witnessed six days ago, he handled the four or five men that were posted around here. I do not wish to imagine what would have happened, were he not to be there at that precise moment.”

“We seem to be lucky, having him around. But how come did he find you here ? It was fairly hard to find this facility, and yet it’s not small. I had the luck to be guided by a flower shopkeeper.”

“Camellia helped you find this place ?” The confusion and the surprise in her voice caught him wary.

“Yes. The communication was difficult, as she wasn’t willing to respond to any of my attempts to talk, but she did led me all the way to here.” He tilted his head. “Why is that ?”

“Believe me when I say I have no idea. She’s been helping us pretty much so far, but she is mute and usually very secretive, in particular towards strangers.” She took a good look at Thoreau, and then laughed shamelessly. “Maybe you mesmerized her with your pretty face, doctor. But to say the truth, I have no idea how Jonathan found me. He just came here to arrest this illegal business I am running, because I was… Well.”

Thoreau’s brows went up in interrogation.

“I would rather not tell you, no offense. But I wouldn’t want you involved in dangerous waters.”

“I am no one to judge, Dorothy. I am fine with secrets. Now”, he inhaled deeply, “I have come for a service, if I may. We are extremely low on most available drugs, and I am under the impression that all the suppliers around us are simply gone. So, would you… would it be possible for us to reach a deal for regular supply ?”

Dorothy sighed while giving him a saddened look.

“I get barely enough medical material myself for this small place, Thoreau. I am afraid I cannot directly fulfill your needs. However”, she added while holding a finger up, searching for paper and a pen, “what I can do is teach you crafting recipes for the most basic supplies with household components – something Dr. Reid taught me once. It would only be fair to return the favor.”

Thoreau’s lips sealed themselves tightly. Those were desperate times anyway… At that point, anything could do the trick as long as they didn’t kill anybody ; he watched her write down titles and long sentences, seemingly a list of ingredients. She took another sheet as well from which she tore a smaller piece.

“I can direct you to my personal supplier as well. I will inform him of the arrival of a new potential client. He is very careful with his deals, and it would be a lie to say that everything that comes from him is clean. But for the time being, bring this to Dr. Swansea, so he’ll get in contact with him. I would appreciate you not mentioning me at all to the administrator, my dear friend. I do not know how much he knows about this place and I like to stay away from prying eyes.”

“I understand your concerns, Dorothy. Don’t worry, you can trust me on the matter. I thank you very much for this”, he concluded with a bright smile, shaking the papers.

“Ah, I nearly forgot : I know this is normally none of your business, and I hate to ask, but…”, she started, biting her inferior lip with some distraught, “Dr. Reid had ordered a batch of very peculiar, rare and foremost expensive products for his personal research. I would wait for his arrival usually, but the problem is they expire rather quickly and I lack the adequate material to conserve it properly. As the doctor assured me long ago it wasn’t the case for him, would you accept to carry the batch to his office and sort them out appropriately ?”

That was not what he expected. First of all, that, of course, would make him more vulnerable on his way back to Pembroke and would very certainly attract unwanted attention. Second, Christ, he was dying to know what kind of components Dr. Reid needed for personal experimentations, and third, that meant he had to actually enter Reid’s office and see what is inside ; the dreams he experienced these days would have to be confirmed or not, and strangely he wasn’t so eager to find out if his mind was still his or not.

But, of course, chivalry.

“Oh no, no problem at all”, he replied. “I am heading to Pembroke, so I would be glad to be of any help.”

“You have my gratitude, doctor”, she concluded with a playful tone of voice as she went to fetch a medium-sized box, whose contents rang joyfully. Fantastic, he was going to be loud and clank as a kitchen.

And, just as he thought, the way back to the hospital was the most dreadful he had ever done. He hated the way the uncountable vials and other glass-made materials were jingling at every step, producing the exact sound that would even attract the most deafen rat. He slowed considerably his walk to be as quiet as possible, but when the silence surrounding him was as thick as a cheesecake, running would have made no difference.

So, naturally, he ran. At least he hoped to scare or discourage any assailant by the weird noises he was making.

But fortunately, he arrived in one piece at the Pembroke Hospital, allowing himself to slow down from the bridge just as the night was falling on the city of London. He entered the building by the side right under Reid’s office, breathless as he was and struggling to catch some air ; despite his natural fibrous complexion, he did not like to run.

He climbed the stairs under the scrutiny of some curious looks, passed the operation room and peered inside his office : neither Ackroyd nor Tippets were there yet. Good.

Strickland carefully let the box down right next to Reid’s door, ignoring all the jiggling noises. He mentally replayed the few scenes he could remember from the foggy dreams, that, right, were only two so far, but Thoreau could not shake his feelings out of this personal matter. Papers on the ground, plant withering. Messy library. Grey walls, tall closed windows. Chemistry set.

Taking a deep breath, his stomach sinking with apprehension, the young doctor turned the doorknob and pushed on it.

The room was exactly as he dreamt.


End file.
